


I Slept With Someone in Fall Out Boy and All I Got Was This Stupid Accident

by Coriander (JayTylerA)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Internalized Transphobia, M/M, Mildly Graphic birth scene, Open Ending, Oral Sex, Other tags to be added, Self-Hatred, Suicide Attempt, This is so shitty spare yourselves, Trans Male Character, Unplanned Pregnancy, Vaginal Sex, Van Days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-09-16 10:47:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16952574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayTylerA/pseuds/Coriander
Summary: Denial isn’t a river in Egypt, but if it was, Pete would be drowning in it. Throwing up in the morning: shitty catering, too muchbeer, and a diet of mainly greasy fast food. Worse backaches than usual: his bass strap was just adjusted wrong. The weird spotting in his underwear: well...he’s had shit like this happen before, right? And it was just a reaction to the hormones? This definitely had nothing to do with the fact that he slept with Patrick a while back. Definitely nothing to do with both of them being too high on lust to think about using a condom. Deny, deny, deny.





	1. A Little More “Touch Me”

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Fall Out Boy or any of its affiliates. I am in no way associated with any mentioned characters; this is a work of fiction. Please treat it as such.  
> Note: This is my first published work, and it’s a piece of shit, I know. However, I’d still appreciate constructive criticism and any tips or pointers you’d like to give me! Also, this was written on a phone, so please forgive any grammatical/spelling errors.

     Yeah, okay, so there  _was_ such a thing as too many beers. Okay, so maybe getting carted off by and making out with some (probably under the age of twenty-one) scene girl wasn’t such a good idea. On the other hand,  _scene girls with short skirts._ Who could say no to a girl with hair that matched his own and more piercings than he could count? Probably someone a lot more sane and a lot more sober than he was at that moment in time, but really, was Pete _ever_ either of those things? 

     The scene girl, honestly he forgot her name as soon as she said it (Emmy? Emilie? Something with an “E?”) definitely kissed like she was underage. She was sloppy and wet and more teeth than lips. She tasted like eyeliner, probably what she was using for the black lipstick she had on, and beer. His hand was up her shirt and under her bra before he even knew what he was doing, and she giggled drunkenly, her hands going for his pants.

     Pete let her. In his drunkenness and idiocy, he let her cup his crotch through his pants. Luckily, he had in his softpack (literally just a rolled-up pair of socks, he was far too broke to afford a real softpack) and she was too drunk to notice that he wasn’t hard. She just rubbed his packer/socks through his jeans and muttered drunken nonsense in his ear as his other hand snaked its way up her tooshorttootight skirt.

     Of course she wasn’t wearing underwear. Erika (that’s her name!) was wet and hot against his fingertips, giggling a bit more and unbuttoning his pants and - shoving a hand into his boxers. Pete was stupid, so, so stupid and only realized it when she ripped the socks from his pants. Erika shoved his hand from under her skirt and ripped the other away from her breast. “Dyke,” she said, her voice thick with hate and alcohol and the traces of arousal. “Fuckin’ tranny dyke,” and she threw the socks back at him and fixed her skirt. “Fuckin’ disgusting tranny dyke,” 

     It took Pete a while to collect himself. He’d kept his secret from everyone except his band and anonymous hookups and a few select friends and family. He picked the socks up from the floor and stuffed them into his pocket, before doing up his pants and stumbling drunkenly out of the dark corner of the club.

     He quickly lost his way in the throng of people. Sweaty, unwashed bodies pressed against him. The reek of cheap beer and cheaper weed permeated the air. He felt his head swim. What exactly was in those drinks? He ordered them himself and watched the bartender pour them from the tap. Maybe it had gone bad; he sure as hell felt like he had drank bad beer.

     He neared the drunk, giggling group of scene girls that he passed when he first came in, the same drunk, giggling group of scene girls Erika came from. There she was, too, her flannel top still rumpled from where Pete’s hand had been shoved up it, her left breast still not back in her bra. She held a fresh beer, and met his eyes rather quickly. Her face contorted into an ugly sneer, before she screamed out at the top of her lungs, “Tranny!” And threw her beer in his face. Her friends joined in, tossing their various drinks in his face and hair, screaming out slurs, “Dyke!” And “Tranny fag!” Being favorites. 

     He hardly noticed being slung over a muscular shoulder like a sack of potatoes and the slurs turning into ugly giggles and halfheartedly thrown beers from a few other people. He’s aware of being tossed into the van and three more sets of footsteps and lots of swearing before he passed out in the seat he had been hurled into.

     He woke to his face being dunked into a gas-station bathroom sink full of cold water. He blubbered and spluttered for a moment before he was pulled back out by the hair ... and then dunked back into the sink full of cold water. He tapped on the side of the sink until he was yanked back out (still by his hair!) and he practically screeched, “Okay! Okay! Uncle, uncle!” And rather than a break from the assault, he got a slap to the back of his head and an angry, “What the  _actual fuck_ were you thinking, Wentz? Ugh, you  _fucking dumbass,”_ from one royally pissed off Andy Hurley. “Um,” Pete said intelligently. His head was still swimming from the alcohol, and he wondered just how bad the hangover would be tomorrow.

     Andy just sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Pete, you need to stop getting yourself into these situations. People are... well, you of all people should know how people are. They see something different, they lash out. You could get yourself  _killed,_ Pete, and all it would be is just another hate crime on the news. Learn to fucking keep it in your goddamn pants,” he slapped Pete upside the head once more. “We’ll have a hotel night in three days if we’re lucky, and we don’t want you stinking of stale beer. Clean yourself up best you can, you’ve got ten minutes till we leave you here,” Andy gestured to the bag on the floor, probably containing clean clothes. Pete knew that the others leaving him here wasn’t an empty threat, so he nodded and Andy left him to scrub the stink off of himself.

     He washed his hair with the shitty soap in the dispenser and wet about twelve billion paper towels to stick under his armpits as makeshift depdorant (he ran out a week ago) after he took off his shirt. He found his toothbrush and toothpaste (thank god) and brushed his teeth faster than he ever had in his life. He looked down at his chest and, yeah, this was the part he was dreading. His binder was stained white with deodorant and yellow over that with sweat. He’d been wearing the same one for over three months, now, and yeah, it needed a wash, but the only other one he had brought was far too small, so he’d have to walk out without one. 

     He didn’t have large breasts by any stretch of the imagination, but as he tugged the clean shirt over his head, he could see them, and since they were in Million Degreesville, Desertland, he couldn’t just toss a hoodie over it and hope for the best. No, he had to go out of the bathroom with his chest on display and... well, this was probably the only convenience store for a while, and he had a little bit of money, so he’d have to buy deodorant.

     He picked up the bag and slung it over his shoulder, hunching down so the cashier hopefully wouldn’t see his chest. He snagged the cheapest bottle of deodorant they had and went to the cashier, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, stared at his chest and called him ma’am. He didn’t say anything until the end of the transaction, when he said, “Thanks. And I’m not a woman, unless you wanna see my dick to prove it?” The cashier turned the colour of a ripe melon and stuttered, shaking his head and handing Pete the deodorant, stammering out, “Sorry, sir! Have a nice night, sir!” As Pete left.

     He managed to make it onto the van just before they left him. He crawled into a seat with Patrick, resting his head on a soft, slightly squishy shoulder. Joe sat up front with Andy, bickering about something Pete didn’t care about. Probably where they were gonna buy condoms. Seriously, those two went at it like rabbits almost every hotel night. 

     Patrick snapped Pete out of his thoughts with a quick kiss to his forehead and an arm around his shoulder, moving him to Patrick’s soft chest. “Hey,” Pete said, his voice scratchy. “Hey,” Patrick said, his voice as smooth as ever. “If you wanted a quick fuck, you should have come to me. I’m always up for it. No pun intended,” Pete snorted at the terrible joke. “Maybe I wanted a girl. Wanted a pussy,” he said, snuggling closer to Patrick’s torso. “Right. And you forgot what happened last time you tried to go after a girl?” Pete could never forget. “Plus,” continued Patrick, “most girls don’t appreciate guys like you,” Pete looked up at Patrick, brown eyes shining. “You mean they don’t like real men?” Patrick gave a soft little laugh and Pete’s heart fluttered. “Yeah, they have terrible taste,” he said sarcastically, squeezing Pete’s bicep. 

     “It’s okay, though, Petey. You’ll always have me,” Pete made a sound halfway between a snort and a sneeze. “Right. The kid that I fuck, barely even a friend with benefits. Thank you, Patrick. Thank you for being there when I can’t find a groupie willing to fuck a guy like me,” sarcasm dripped from his voice, but the words were sincere. He truly was grateful that Patrick was willing to get him off when girls didn’t want a guy who didn’t have a real dick. That Patrick was willing to stick with him through the worst of slurs and insults. That Patrick was always gentle when he wanted it and so, so wonderfully rough and brutal when he needed it. Of course, Patrick didn’t reciprocate his feelings. He was just a quick fuck when groupies were in short supply, which was often. He wasn’t a lover, just a friend with benefits.

     That little fact didn’t stop Patrick from quietly fingering Pete when Joe had fallen asleep in the front seat and Andy was too engrossed in the music to care.


	2. A Bit More Than Seven Minutes In Heaven (And Definitely More in Hell)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Van Halen is a great way to mask sex noises so you don’t wake up your band mates in the room next to you. Also, sex. So. Much. Sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coffee, anyone? Please?

     Andy was in fact, right. They got lucky, so very very lucky, and played awesome shows and had never been happier to see a few hundred dollars in one place for three nights (every night!) and got a hotel. Unfortunately, the hotel night alligned with Pete’s shot.

     Pete always felt so bad for Joe and Andy on his shot days, especially on the rare occasion shot days alligned with hotel nights. Shots always made him very hot and sweaty and sticky and gross and _hungry._ He’d eat three times in an hour and still be hungry. That wasn’t even the worst of it, though; the worst of it always was how fucking  _horny_ he got. The doctor had warned him that his sex drive might spike after his shot, but he hadn’t expected anything like this.

     He would drag Patrick offstage after their show for a quick fuck, or practically beg Patrick to finger him in the car while whispering filth into his ear, or in the ten minutes before a show he’d have Patrick go down on him so he wouldn’t practically hump his bass onstage. Not that he didn’t anyway. 

     That night, though, Patrick as almost as bad. The remnants of teenage hormones, Pete supposed, and then he stopped thinking altogether when Patrick shoved a hand into his pants and rubbed gently at his clit through his underwear. This happened in the backseat of the van,  _right behind Joe and Andy._

     They were on each other before they were even through the door, Pete shoving his tongue into Patrick’s mouth and Patrick’s hand halfway up his shirt. Pete vaguely heard Joe screech at them to get a room, even though that’s exactly what they were doing. They barely pulled apart enough for Pete to unlock the door and then they slammed back against it inside, tongues back in each other’s mouths and hands pulling desperately at clothes as Patrick turned on the shitty radio by the bed. Eruption by Van Halen was playing. How appropriate.

     Patrick’s shirt was pulled over his head with far more gusto than usual and he damn near tossed Pete onto the bed. Pete was barely able to gasp for air before he had a tongue that was not his own back in his mouth. He pushed Patrick away and his heart sped up to an inhuman speed as soon as he saw swollen, red lips, blueyellowgreen eyes made black with lust and cheeks dusted with the prettiest shade of pink. “What’s got you so worked up, Tricky?” Pete asked, his voice dripping with arousal and fake worry. “Jealo-“ he wasn’t able to finish his word before Patrick was on him again, shoving his tongue back into his mouth and putting his hand back into Pete’s pants, rubbing his clit in  _just the right way._

He let out an embarrissingly high-pitched whine as Patrick’s fingers rubbed him and he arched up off the bed. Patrick pulled away and whispered into his ear, hot and dirty, “Maybe. Made me mad, seeing you go off with that slut of a girl. Didn’t want her hurting you, didn’t want you running off. If you wanted to fuck, yo should have come straight to me, Pete,” and he almost ripped Pete’s shirt off after that statement. 

     Patrick yanked down his jeans and boxers, but stopped at his binder. Always stopped at his binder. Patrick knew his breasts were his worst source of dysphoria, but  _oh,_ they were so  _sensitive_ in the most perfect way. Patrick’s fingers teased the edge of his binder, and fuck it, Pete wasn’t going to let his body get in the way of a good fuck, so he just nodded and allowed Patrick to wrestle the fabric over his head.

     He felt his nipples harden in the cold air of the hotel room and suddenly felt so, so naked. Always felt so naked when his binder was gone. And then Patrick stopped that thought when he bent down to lightly suck on Pete’s right breast. With him already being pretty small there, Patrick was able to fit almost the entire thing in his mouth and _oh,_ it feel so nice. 

     Pete stifled a moan behind his hand as Patrick sucked and sucked and sucked and toyed with his other nipple with his hand. He switched it up after a moment, just to be fair, and even went so far as to leave a few hickeys along the soft flesh of his breasts and along his neck and collarbone, too high to be covered by his shirt collar and too low to be anything other than hickeys. He had a thing for that, having Pete walk around covered in bruises and bitemarks and - oh, that’s  _good._

To say that Patrick was good at giving oral was an understatement. No, scratch that. Saying that Patrick was good at giving oral was an understatement,  _was an understatement._ He could do this weird licky-twitchy thing with his tongue and if that didn’t get him closer to the edge than anything he didn’t know what did. Patrick wasn’t scared to lick and suck gently at his clit and quite literally fuck him with his tongue. Plus, that tongue was long and beautiful and hit all the right places. Pete buried his hands in Patrick’s fine hair and pulled lightly, knowing that Patrick hated it when he pulled too hard. 

     He didn’t bother hiding his moans, letting them spill free of his mouth like water and Patrick seemed pleased, humming slightly and then that was it, Pete was cumming. He practically screamed Patrick’s name (had he been coherent, he really would have felt bad for Joe and Andy, even though they were probably doing the exact same thing) and at that moment he couldn’t have cared less.

     It always took Pete a good while to recover from an orgasm. Patrick was whispering a mix of filth and sweetness in his ear, and yeah, wow, he didn’t know he could be turned on again so soon after cumming. Patrick kissed him over and over, on the cheek, on the neck, ears, everywhere, telling him he did amazing and Pete inwardly beamed. 

     It didn’t take long for him to notice that Patrick was still hard. He’s always been pretty good about multiple orgasms, so he leaned up to whisper in Patrick’s ear, “Fuck me. I swear to God if you don’t fuck me right now you can say bye to your fucking di-“ Patrick shut him up with another kiss, but decidedly did not fuck him. Instead, he played with Pete’s breast’s and humped him and Patrick _still hadn’t taken off his pants._

”I’m gonna make you desperate, Pete,” he whispered in Pete’s ear, moving his hand away from his nipple and down to his cunt, slipping a finger inside and barely moving it, teasing teasing teasing and not giving nearly enough. “You’re so hard, just from my finger,” he mumbled, flicking his thumb over Pete’s clit and curling his finger up and Pete whimpered, his back arching up and his body shaking ever so slightly. “Mmm...you want me to fuck you, you say. Why didn’t you want me to fuck you when you went after that girl?” Agonizingly slowly, he slipped in another finger, not moving nearly enough and, just as he promised, making him desperate. He sometimes forgot how Patrick was barely even eighteen, when he was like this, all dominant and sexy and  _god_ did he prefer it over the short-tempered kid he got outside the bedroom. 

     “Paaatriiick...” Pete groaned, throwing a hand over his eyes as he tried so hard not to just flip Patrick over and ride his dick right then and there. “She doesn’t matteeeerrrrrrr...” his voice broke as Patrick added a third finger and rubbed a little harder just around his clit. “Hmmm...” Patrick said, curling his fingers and making Pete whine. “You still should have come to me. You know I’d be a better fuck than her, you know me, you’ve fucked me, yet you go after some groupie,” he stopped moving entirely, making Pete squirm and groan frustratedly. “Patrick, I swear to every deity in existence and the ones that don’t exist, if you don’t fuck me right the fuck now - ahhhhhhh,  _fuck...”_ Patrick moved his fingers again and damn near drove him insane. “Fine, fine,” Patrick said, tone filled with fake annoyance.

      Patrick tugged off his pants and boxers and stroked his cock a few times. Pete watched and almost drooled. He had a bit of an oral fixation, and almost asked to suck Patrick off instead, but then remembered that he was still more aroused than he had been since his last shot, and possibly before then.  

     Patrick lined himself up and slowly pushed in; Pete moaned loudly when Patrick bottomed out. Oh, it had been too long since they had properly fucked. Quick handjobs in the backseat of the van, quickies in portapotties (yeah, it’s gross, but...well, neither of them were exactly sober), and quick blowjobs in gas station bathrooms weren’t nearly enough, and the past few hotel nights were used for showering and sleeping and that was it. But now...oh, finally. This was perfect, and Patrick was just the right amount of rough and gentle at the same time and always muttered absolute filth into Pete’s ear and always managed to get a hand to play with a nipple. It was everything he could have asked for and more.

     It was agony and amazing pleasure at the same time, too much and not enough at the same time, the hand that was teasing his nipple went down to tease his clit and around where Patrick was buried in him, and then he was cumming. He never lasted long, especially on nights like tonight, when he went without a proper fuck for so long. It didn’t take long for Patrick to follow behind him, making him feel oddly full as he pulled out.

     They lay there for a moment, panting and relishing their release, when Patrick sat up and looked down and a look of horror crossed his face. “Pete...” he said, dipping down to rub a finger between his folds. He hissed softly, saying, “Don’t tell me you’re up for round three?” Patrick shook his head. “No...look,” he said, holding up two fingers painted white. “We forgot to use a condom,”

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to stop existing. Also, if any of y’all make it this far and decide to keep reading, know that my update schedule is inconsistent as fuck. Like I might update twice in one day and then not update for three weeks. And also, OOOoohOO plot twist nobody ever saw coming oooOooH totally wasn’t in the description or in the tags.


	3. Our Boys Aren’t Alright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know how some people have brain farts? Not our boys. Our boys’ brains completely shit themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I GOT MY COFFEE. THANK YOU ROOMMATE.

    Pete blinked at the offending finger covered in the offending substance. And blinked. And blinked again. He felt strangely detached from himself as he felt a small amount of semen drip down his inner thighs. His brain reeled with a list of possible negatives outcomes of this. There was no risk of STDs, thank god, as Patrick was a virgin before Pete and Pete got tested as regularly as he could, but, even with testosterone, he could get himself knocked up as easy as one-two-three-four-there’s-a-baby-in-my-goddamn-body. He was already pretty out of whack, even before testosterone, so the added hormones just screwed him up some more. It wasn’t likely, him getting knocked up; he hadn’t menstruated properly, minus a lot of spotting and some light bleeding here and there, in about five months, since his six months on testosterone mark. Still, it could happen in a snap.

     Pete’s mind flashed back to two months ago, when the condom broke and they had only noticed when it was almost too late and Patrick was barely able to pull out in time and cum on Pete’s stomach. He remembered another time when the condom had broken, just three weeks ago, and Pete had to take a morning-after pill that made him sick for three days, throwing up and bleeding like crazy. He lost seven perfectly good pairs of boxers and two more pairs of jeans and made an oath to never take another morning-after pill ever again. However, this...this wasn’t a condom malfunction. This was a full-on brain malfunction on both of their parts. 

     Externally, he seemed numb. Internally, he was freaking the fuck out. Oh, how stupid they had been! A slip of the mind, he guessed. Neither of them had been that desperate...ever, really. He was dumbly aware of Patrick shaking his shoulder with the hand that didn’t have semen on it. He snapped out of his stupid as Patrick lightly smacked him in the face. “Huh?” He said, still not completely aware. “Let’s...get you cleaned up and we’ll...discuss...” he gestured at the mess between Pete’s legs, “this,”

     Patrick somehow managed to get them both into the tiny shower and scrub all the stink and other undesirable things off of them. He was so very careful, cleaning between Pete’s legs, making sure not to rub too hard, but at the same time, making sure to clean out anything gross. He dried them off and got them into semi-clean clothes, they hadn’t done laundry in a month and a half, they didn’t know truly clean, before sitting them both on the bed.

     Patrick ran a hand through his fine hair and Pete mimicked the movement.  _Fuck,_ his brain supplied. “So...what can we do? You got really sick last time you took a morning-after pill, and none of us are dealing with that mess again...then again, it was riskier back then because you were, uh...bleeding more,” Pete shrugged, for once in his life lacking a snarky comeback. “We’re only going to be out for about eight more weeks, tops, probably closer to six, so even if I am...you know, I’ll be home in time to get rid of it, if Mom’ll let me,” He combed his bangs out of his face and the tips of his fingers were met with cooling shower water and warm sweat. “Pete...you know how she is. She’d probably castrate me, never let me near you again, make you have the baby, and make me pay child support,” Pete let out a dry chuckle. “You’re not wrong there,”

     “Either way, we should be okay. The likelihood that you’re...pregnant is very small, so we should be okay. Just...be on the lookout. We’ll be fine as long as you don’t start getting sick in the next few weeks, okay? And if you do...well, there are some cheap tests in drugstores that are pretty okay, and...you know what, let’s just not think about it. The last thing we need is more stress. I’ll be under the legal drinking age with grey hair and wrinkles,” Patrick ran a hand down his face and looked at the clock, which read 12:34 A.M. “Let’s try to get some sleep and think about this...later. Not in the morning, just...later, when we’re not freaking out so much,” Pete nodded, feeling fatigue wash over him.

     Just as Patrick went to go sleep in the other bed in the room, as was customary after they fucked for...reasons, Pete blurted, “Patrick,”  _Curse you, stupid, emotional, sentimental, lovey-dovey for Patrick brain!_ “Hmm?” He said, turning to look over his shoulder.  _Don’t fuck this up._ “Would you mind sleeping in my bed tonight? I’m a little shaken up, and I don’t wanna...” he trailed off, hoping he didn’t give his feelings away with that one statement.

     “Yeah, sure, Pete,” Patrick said, and Pete swore he could feel his heart stop and flutter and do something really nice in his chest. They situated themselves so that Patrick was the big spoon, Pete cradled in his arms. They were both human furnaces, but neither get uncomfortable, even with the extra warmth from the shitty blanket. Pete drifted off, the most nervous he had been in well over a year, into a fitful sleep.

     Pete woke up at about seven in the morning in an icy sweat, his hands shaking and terror running through his body. Patrick was on him in a flash, running a hand through Pete’s sweaty hair and running a hand soothingly up and down his side. He couldn’t even remember what the nightmare was, and he didn’t think he wanted to, but judging from how much he was shaking and the fact that he woke himself up screaming, it was something pretty terrible. 

     He hauled himself out of bed to go wash the sweat out of his hair and brush his teeth and finally use that bottle of deodorant he bought four days ago now. He forced his binder on, wondering if he was going to have to buy a new one, because he swore it shrunk in the dryer last time he washed it. He was barely even able to get it over his already small breasts, let alone comfortably. Some twisted part of his mind asked,  _What are you gonna do when they swell up with milk? When you start lactating? Can’t force ‘em down then, Petey-boy._

     Pete punched the little voice in the face until it shut up, and then mentally punched it some more. When he left the bathroom, he saw Patrick already dressed and sitting on the bed, his trucker hat situated on his head and his sideburns sort-of trimmed. Pete would never understand the sideburns. He put on a ridiculous face and pretended to sneak up on Patrick, doing a rather silly walk as he snuck up. Patrick turned around at the slight creaking and held in a laugh at Pete’s creeper walk. “What in the actual hell is that?” He asked, his voice dripping with stifled laughter. “Shhh, Lunchbox. I’m sneaking up on you! I don’t want to scare you away!” Pete grabbed Patrick around the waist and gently nipped at Patrick’s ear. He heard the redhead’s breathing hitch. 

     Pete moved around to straddle Patrick’s waist and kiss him, his tongue already moving down the younger’s throat. Patrick’s cool hands slid down the back of Pete’s jeans to cup his ass, making Pete hiss softly at the coolness. “Up for a quickie?” Pete whispered, but Patrick just shook his head and maneuvered Pete so that they were both on the bed and Patrick didn’t waste any time in taking Pete’s pants off and sliding his fingers into Pete’s cunt, his thumb catching gently on Pete’s clit. They were conscious of their neighbors this time, so Pete actually stifled his moans by putting a pillow on his face. It didn’t take long before Pete was cumming, softly squirting onto the bedsheets. Fuck, he loved it when Patrick could do that. He wanted to return the favor.

     It wasn’t two minutes later that Pete was on his knees with Patrick’s cock in his mouth, his nose buried in dusky blond curls, his eyes blinking up at Patrick with faux innocence. He sort of wished Patrick would let him do this more often, just to satisfy his own oral fixation,  but not being able to do it that often made the times he  _could_ do it all the sweeter.

     Pete prided himself on three things during that period of his life: his ability to go three solid weeks without a real shower, his ability to make himself look like a raccoon with nothing but a stick of Dollar Tree eyeliner, and his lack of a gag reflex, all of which he greatly enjoyed showing off to Patrick. The first one made Patrick kick him in the crotch (many, many times) and yell at him to at least scrub off in a gas station,  _Jesus Christ,_ the second one Patrick honestly gave a negative number of shits about, and the third one always ended with him moaning Pete’s name, his hand in Pete’s hair, and his cum in Pete’s mouth, all of which pleased said Pete greatly.

     When Patrick had finally cum, they got their pants back on and jogged out the door and to the van, Pete limping a little bit more than usual and his lips red and raw. Andy just raised an eyebrow at this and Joe screamed out, “Pete and Patrick sittin’ in a tree, F-U-C-K-I-N-G. First comes the condom, then comes th-“ Pete punched him in the face, which successfully shut Joe up. Not often that pain made Joe shut up. Then again, Joe was often too high off of...something to feel pain. 

     The first hour or so of driving was uneventful, for them. Only three empty soda cans were thrown, insults were hurled, but without meaning, and Pete only kissed Andy once because Joe dared him to. Only after an hour, Pete started to feel a little bit crampy. He didn’t think anything of it, probably Patrick was a little too rough with him last night. He didn’t think anything of it until he stood up in the backseat to reach up to the front and steal one of Andy’s drumsticks and Patrick said, “Uh...Pete?” He whipped his head around. He was wearing light-wash blue jeans, so when Patrick said, “There’s...uh...something on your pants,” he knew exactly what was happening. He carefully set a hand on the seat of his pants and pulled it away. Sure enough, his hand came back covered in thick, gross, dark blood. Make that eight pairs of boxers and three pairs of jeans. “Joe, we need to stop. Now,” Joe’s eyes widened as he mouthed,  _Period?_ Pete nodded.

     He had to awkwardly stand up for the rest of the five minute drive to the rest stop to avoid getting blood on anything else. Patrick stepped out with him when they stopped and walked behind him, making sure nobody would see the large blood splotch on the back of Pete’s jeans. He helped Pete out of the blood-soaked underwear and even threw them away for him, along with the ruined pants. Pete sighed and looked at the fresh(ish) pair of jeans and boxers. He situated a pad best he could and pulled them up, wincing at the uncomfortable feeling. Periods were up there with his breasts when it came to dysphoria, and since this was his first one in months, it made it ten times worse.  

     He couldn’t believe it had come, especially the day after his shot. “Well, at least we know I didn’t get you knock-“

     “No, we don’t. My hormones are different, they were already fucked up before I started T. Just because I’m bleeding now, doesn’t mean I’m not pregnant, Patrick. It just means I’m bleeding. This might not even be a period, this could be some sort of reaction my reproductive organs are having to the hormones, I get those reactions a lot. Just because this happened does not mean we’re out of the woods,” Pete snapped, leaving the bathroom and going back into the van, putting an amp in the middle seat and squishing himself as far into the door as he could.

     Patrick got in a minute or so later, also squishing himself to the door. Pete looked at him longingly, his heart fluttering as he cramped. He pressed his forehead to the window and sighed. Just eight weeks of this shitty van left. Eight weeks, Petey. Eight weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My roommate has been playing Christmas music nonstop for over seven hours even though I’ve asked her to stop. The coffee was not worth it. Rant over. I hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	4. My Roommate Made me Change the Name of This Chapter so She Wouldn’t Punch me in the Boob

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No. Nope nope nope. This has nothing to do with the brain malfunction that happened a month ago. Nothing at all. It’s just his hormone levels going crazy, nothing more. Nothing at all. Keep going that way Pete, and you’ll be drowning in a nonexistent Egyptian river.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My roommate actually did make me change the name of this chapter and she did threaten to punch me in the boob. Joke’s on her, I don’t have enough boobs to punch! I can go without a bra on a hot day and nobody would know! Haha!

     Luckily, the heaviest of bleeding only lasted two days, but unluckily, within those three days, he ruined two more pairs of boxers and almost ruined another pair of pants. They had to actually stop at a gas station and buy baking soda and laundry detergent and a spare toothbrush to scrub the blood from his (luckily already dark) skinny jeans.

     Lighter bleeding, though, didn’t mean that Pete was less of a pissy bitch. He snapped at Patrick, yelled at Joe, and almost assaulted Andy more times than he could count in those next three days. He was bloated, crampy, and always felt like puking, so could you really blame him? Everyone else tried to go easy on him, they’d all seen girls on their period before, and adding seventy-eight truckloads of dysphoria probably didn’t help in Pete’s situation. However, it didn’t stop them from lashing out occasionally, which made Pete even more emotional (Patrick made him cry for fifteen solid minutes once by saying his performance was subpar. He locked himself in the van and didn’t let anyone in until Patrick said he was sorry and promised to buy him a can of Red Bull. He still owes him the Red Bull) and made them more angry and, well, really it was just a vicious cycle.

     When his bleeding ended, though, he was pretty well back to his normal self. He apologized for being such a huge dick about everything...and then went back to being a regular dick about everything. He teased Patrick about his weight incessantly, snipped pieces of Joe’s hair off with craft scissors he’d lifted from numerous Dollar Trees, and still assaulted Andy, albeit playfully, every chance he got. It only got bad about a month after he bled.

     He started feeling really, really nauseous all the time. His breasts were  _so sensitive,_ painfully so, so much that he only wore his binder during shows, not even bothering to wear it when he went into gas stations to scrub off, much to the others’, mostly Joe and Andy, dismay when he stripped off his shirt in front of them. 

     About three days after he started feeling nauseous, he finally threw up. And the next day. And the next. He didn’t think anything of it; he knew his diet was shit and he was probably lacking vitamin C or some shit like that. That didn’t stop him from worrying on day four when he threw up and started feeling crampy again.

      _You’re probably just about to get another period,_ his brain supplied one morning after throwing up for five minutes in a Sheetz toilet at two o’clock in the morning,  _the timing would be right. But then again, when have you ever been regular?_ Pete punched the little voice in his head again. He looked at his face in the mirror and sighed. He’d lost weight and there were heavier bags under his eyes than normal. There was a a smattering of pimples across his nose, cheeks, and forehead, more acne than he’d ever had since he started testosterone. A thought hit him like a truck:  _what if he_ had  _gotten_ _knocked up?_

     Feeling slightly silly, Pete lifted his shirt and pressed a hand to his lower belly, just below his navel. Even if he was...pregnant, he’d never feel anything this early. It’d be the size of a lentil, if it was even there. Something nagged at the back of his head, but he pushed it away. He flushed the toilet and decided to check and see if he was spotting - he was wearing white underwear, just a pair of briefs - and yeah, just as he thou- wait. That didn’t make sense. Every time he’d ever spotted before, it’d always been eithe red or brown. This was pale pink, and more slimy and goopy-gross than dried and foul-smelling. Not that it didn’t still reek to high heavens, but it was a different kind of smell, less fishy and musky, more like...almost rotting meat. He growled anyway and stuck the pad in his briefs; he hated wearing briefs more than anything, they reminded him far too much of when he was forced to wear panties, but they were unfortunately the best for using pads...and he only had two pairs of boxers left. Not that he guys knew; they did  _not_ need to know how disgusting of a motherfucker Pete really was.

     He crawled back into the van and curled into Patrick’s side, his head resting on a soft belly. Patrick gently ran his fingers through Pete’s hair, soothing the headache he’d gotten from throwing up everything he’d eaten in the past twelve hours. “It’s alright. You’ll be okay, Pete,” he said, but honestly Patrick sounded more like he was trying to convince himself. Pete nodded, pressing his face into Patrick’s belly and falling asleep.

     He didn’t know where he was. The walls were a putrid yellow colour, and the floors were covered in bloodstained grey carpet. Wait...that stain wasn’t there a second ago. Neither was that one. It took him a good while to notice that he was about four-feet-nine, with just little mosquito-bite breasts and long brown hair. Dark red menstrual blood dropped down his leg, the source of the stains. “Mom?” He called out, his voice high and squeaky. “Mom!” Nobody came.

     A mirror appeared on the wall in front of him. He stepped toward it with his too short legs, blood still running down his thighs. His hair was brown and wildly wavy, hitting just below the base of his rib cage. His breasts were tiny, probably not even an A-cup. His hips were just starting to widen out into a feminine shape, and his face...his eyes were wide and his cheeks were flushed and he was an eleven-year-old girl again, scared because she got her first period. His body changed before his eyes. He shot up to five-feet-two, at fourteen. His breasts had filled out slightly, and his hips had padded out into an elegant pear shape. He hated it. He hated every second of it. Scissors appeared in his hands and he started hacking off chunks of his long brown hair. He gouged his scalp occasionally and droplets of blood appeared on his forehead. 

     He bound his chest flatter than an Ace bandage, staring at himself in the mirror. Deep red still ran down his leg, chunks of  _something squishy_ caught in his pubic hair. His mother appeared and gawked at his appearance and he said, his voice less squeaky than before, “Am I a handsome boy, Momma?” He felt his body change again, blood still running down his thigh. His mother’s face morphed into his father’s “Dad, I’m sorry-“ his father slapped him across the face. He knew he was dreaming right then, his father would never hit him. “Sorry doesn’t cut it, Marie! Sorry-“ slap. “Doesn’t-“ slap. “Cut it!” Slap.

     Pete hit the floor, his bare breasts pressed against the carpet. Blood flowed out of him more freely. The faces changed. Became people he’d seen maybe once or twice during high school. “How’s I going,  _Marie?_ How are those tiny-ass titties doing?” The boy hauled him to his feet and put a hand on his right breast. “Sure you’re seventeen, Marie?” He flicked a nipple. “Don’t feel more than thirteen,” ugly laughter spewed from the group as they tossed cafeteria milk and potato chips at him. They caught in his hair.

     He changed again. He was himself that time, his twenty-threeish self, except his belly was swollen and aching. His breasts had expanded at least two cup sizes. The faces had morphed into one again, and this time it was Patrick. He had a girl on his arm...a girl with long, brown hair. “Disgusting, Marie. Fucking disgusting. Why would I want a tranny like you when I could have any girl I wanted? Fucking disgusting, Marie. I’m leaving you for her, Pete. Goodbye, Pete. Pete. Pete. Pete!”

     Pete’s eyes shot open, and his hands buried into Patrick’s hoodie. He whimpered and tried not to let the tears fall, but failed as he cried softly into the fabric. “It’s okay, we’ve got you...we’ve got you,” a hand that decided wasn’t Patrick’s rested soothingly on his back, causing him to jump, but it was just Joe. “I’m sorry...” he said, wiping at his eyes as he realized that they had pulled over for him. “I’m okay, really...just...I’ll be okay...” he suddenly felt the need to throw up. “I’ll be right back...” he said, crawling over Patrick to get to the door. He stepped into the grass by the road and dry heaved, with the occasional spurt of bile coming up. Patrick soon followed him, rubbing his back while he heaved. “You haven’t eaten anything since you last threw up, what on earth are you chucking?” Pete wiped his mouth and shrugged. “It’s just the flu. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me, we need to get back on the road,” Patrick tried to argue, but Pete was back in the van before he could really say anything.

     If this was how he was going to spend the rest of this shitty tour in a shittier van, then this was going to be a hell of a long two weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y’all enjoyed


	5. Forever Younger, Growing Older, Just the Same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fuck, his brain said as he shrugged on his jacket. Barely even September and it was already forty degrees at night in Chicago. Fuck, he thought as he picked up the little white sticks and stuck them in his pocket. Fuck, he thought as he made his way to Patrick’s house. He’d barely been home five hours and he’s already stressing out, and going to make Patrick stress, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “Golden Days” by Panic! at the Disco. Trigger warning: Attempted suicide in this chapter and implied/mentioned self-harm.

      _Home again, home again,_ Pete thought as he slammed his things into the couch and flopped down on top of them. The last leg of the tour had been hell; he’d spotted like crazy, thrown up almost daily, and oddly enough had to pee every hour on the hour, but barely anything coming out.

     His mother came into the room not longe after he sat down, hugging him to her chest and kissing his cheeks and nose and forehead and lips and any skin she could find. He pushed her away and told her that she was smothering him, but he honestly didn’t mind. He’s always been a bit of a momma’s boy.

     His mother gushed over him for a while, talking about how amazing they must have been and how much fun they must have had (it was not fun. Definitely not fun) and how amazing it was that one of Pete’s bands had finally seen a tourish type thing. She didn’t mention his lack of a binder. Bless her.

     She mentioned that his father was at work and that she’d have to go in too, soon, and said that there was spaghetti in the fridge if he was hungry. She was still pissed at him for dropping out of school, but she was glad that his band might become successful. She squeezed him again and kissed him full on the mouth, before heading out the door.

     Pete helped himself to a plate of cold spaghetti. As he munched, he let his mind wander. Five months. Five months of being trapped in a van that smelled like pot smoke and boy sweat. Five months from his last actual meal. Five months from the last time he had water that wasn’t from a fountain. Five months away from home. He scraped the plate with the fork and slurped up the last of the sauce. He probably had some on his face. He honestly didn’t care.

     He got a call from Joe later that evening that there was going to be a party at his place and that Pete should totally come because there’s beer. He agreed faster than he could even think about it and then remembered his binder situation. He gently pressed the tips of his fingers to his breast and hissed at the pain. He sighed and took off his shirt, noticing something odd: his nipples were oddly misshapen, and closer to a coffee color than the soft rosy caramel than they usually were. There wasn’t any swelling, thank god, but his worry spiked up. 

     He forced himself to pin it down and forced his binder over his chest, almost whimpering at the pain. He flat-ironed his hair and applied fresh eyeliner over the month-old eyeliner stains. He was pretty sure they’d never go away. He tugged on a jacket and left a note for his mom on the fridge that said he was out for a bit. He made sure to leave the door unlocked in case there was another situation where he had to run from the cops. (What? It was only one mailbox!)

     The first thing that hit him when he arrived at the party was the smell. It reeked of pot smoke and unwashed bodies and beer and sex. He almost gagged as soon as he walked in. Joe found him and dragged him in, introducing him to a cute redhead in a short, tight, sequined black dress who seemed a little too slutty for his liking. He pushed her away and mingled through the people there, smiling at strangers and flipping off people he knew.

     A girl who couldn’t have been a day over fifteen grabbed his ass and put a beer in his face. It smelled terrible, so he pushed it away and ran off before he threw up.

     More beers were offered to him, and he refused every time, the smell just far too much for him. Finally, he fucking lost it and threw up at the stilettoed feet of the girl (guy? He couldn’t tell and sure as hell wasn't one to judge) who offered it to him. He quickly apologized to the person and left without giving Joe an explanation. The vomit on his floor would probably suffice.

     Pete leaned against a nearby telephone pole and sighed. What on earth was he going to do? It was looking more and more likely that that tiny chance that he was pregnant decided to rear its ugly head. He checked his watch and both cheered and screamed when he realized he still had thirty minutes before the nearest drugstore closed.

     He scanned the aisles and finally snagged one, and then another, and then a third before he could talk himself out of it. The boy working behind the cash register looked about twenty, and he looked at Pete with sympathy. “Good luck, man,” he said as he rung up all three tests. “When my girl got knocked up, well, you see where I am now...” he gestured at the adult diapers behind Pete.    

     The tests were expensive as all hell, but he had an emergency credit card and he supposed this was an emergency. He took the bag without saying thanks to the cashier. It was a ten minute walk back to his house, but every step felt like a lifetime.

    His mother was still not home when he arrived, so he took the note off the fridge and set it on the table as he went upstairs to the bathroom. He pulled out one of the tests. It was one of the fancy ones, with a little digital window to tell you your result. It was by far the most expensive, at fifteen dollars. It didn’t take him long to be able to pee on the stick, but the ten-minute wait was unbearable. 

     When he finally picked up the test, his heart sank.  _Pregnant_. The little message in that window with its little smiley face made him want to throw up again. Twenty minutes later, he grabbed the next test and took it as well. A plus sign. The next one, two pink lines. No. No. No, no, no, NO! This can’t be happening. This. Can’t. Be. Happening!

     He threw the expensive test across the bathroom. No. This can’t happen to him! This can’t! He could always abort it, but...he thought about it for a second and immediately realized that he didn’t have the heart for it. He couldn’t, he just couldn’t. He picked up the other two tests and set them on the bathroom counter. He’d have to tell Patrick. He’d have to. Would Patrick even want anything to do with him? He sobbed. He wasn’t Patrick’s boyfriend, just a quick fuck. He wouldn’t want anything to do with Pete after this.

     He turned the note over and wrote on the back for his mom to check the bathroom, he was out talking with Patrick. If that didn’t give it away he didn’t know what would.

      _Fuck,_ his brain said as he shrugged on his jacket. Barely even September and it was already forty degrees at night in Chicago. _Fuck_ , he thought as he picked up one of the little white sticks and stuck them in his pocket. _Fuck_ , he thought as he made his way to Patrick’s house. He’d barely been home five hours and he’s already stressing out, and going to make Patrick stress, too.

     He rang Patrick’s doorbell and was greeted by an irritated face that quickly turned worried at Pete’s appearance. He’d taken off his binder and he knew he’d lost more weight, and probably Patrick could see better with the tighter shirt he had under his unziped jacket. He ushered Pete in. “Red Bull? My mom got me some in celebration,” he smiled and Pete winced. “Probably the last thing I need right now,” Patrick blinked at him like he’d grown a second head. Pete  _never_ refused Red Bull.

    “Listen, Tricky, we uh...need to talk,” Pete sat down on the sofa and Patrick quickly joined. “Go ahead, Pete. I’m alone all night tonight, you can tell me anythin,” his eyes were wide and almost innocent, the same look he wore when he was eating Pete out. He shivered at the thought. Instead of saying anything, he pulled the test out of his pocket. It was the expensive one with the little digital window. Patrick took it with shaking hands, obviously not caring that Pete had pissed on it. 

     The first words out of Patrick’s mouth were, “This is a joke, right? This is one of yours and Joe’s pranks, right? Because this is not funny, this is the opposite of funny-“ he only stopped when he noticed Pete had started crying. “Oh my god. This. This isn’t a prank, is it? Uh... I don’t know what to say to you...uh...”  _He hates you. He hates you and wants nothing to do with you and thinks you’re disgusting.  He wants you and the stupid baby dead._ His brain short-circuited as ugly sobs racked his body and he wept into Patrick’s shoulder. 

     Patrick placed a tentative hand on Pete’s shoulder and almost immediately he calmed down. He wiped the tears and the mucus from his face with the sleeve of his jacket. “I’m sorry...” he whispered into Patrick’s chest. “Hey, hey. Pete, don’t be sorry. Like you said, we can...save up some money and get rid of it-“ 

     “No! I don’t...I don’t want to get rid of it. I wanna...I wanna keep it. I wanna keep our...our baby,” Patrick tensed beneath him. “Pete...I’m eighteen. You’re twenty-three. We’re not ready to be parents. Our parents aren’t ready to be grandparents. And the band-“

     “I couldn’t care less about the band right now, Patrick! I care about me and the baby and you! I want us...I want us to be a family,” he sounded crazy even to himself. Maybe he was finally cracking up. “I wanna...be like they are in those shitty Hallmark romance movies. I want it to be me and you and the baby in a little house on the edge of the woods and hot cocoa and-“ he laughed softly. He really was cracking up. Maybe the shock was just starting to hit him.

     “Pete, are you on something? Are you fucking  _high?”_  Pete giggled and pushed off of Patrick’s chest. “No, I’m not, Trickyboy, Trickydad,” Pete was in shock, slowly cracking up. “No, no, no! I want our baby to be safe, Tricky. Wouldn’t ever hurt it. I love the baby, Tricky. I love you!” He kissed Patrick, more cheeks than lips. The small portion of his brain that was still sane shrieked at him that he’d just confessed, but the rest of him giggled and pushed off, waltzing out the front door.

Pete heard Patrick run after him, but he was faster and soon lost him. His sanity returned and he turned into an alley that he liked to hide in when he felt overwhelmed. Patrick wouldn’t want anything to do with him after that. He was probably tracking him down to slap him in the face and hurt him some more, calling him a freak and then leaving him in his own blood. Shakily, he picked up a shard of glass from a broken window lying on the ground. He slipped off his jacket and dug the glass shard into his wrist, cutcutcutting all the way to the base of his elbow. Fingers slicked with blood, he did the same to the other side and threw the glass down, sliding down the wall of the building behind him.

     He lied there for five minutes, pondering the afterlife before he started feeling woozy. His vision went red and then black around the edges and then he heard stomping and then he saw a person, short and stocky and wearing the same ugly argyle sweater Pete met him in. “Pete! Oh, my god, Pete...” Patrick dug around in Pete’s jacket, looking for the cell phone he knew was there and dialing 9-1-1. 

     “Yes, he...I think he tried to kill himself. Peter Wentz III. He’s...he’s transgender, and I’m pretty sure he’s pregnant...Please, come now...” and that was all Pete heard before he blacked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Also, the reason Pete is urinating every hour is because during pregnancy, especially in the early stages, there is increased blood flow to the uterus and bladder, causing the urge to pee all the time, but only a little bit of urine coming out.


	6. I’m Hooked on Your Dopamine, What You do to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Pete...” Patrick’s hand was warm against his own icy one. Joe and Andy were there, too, as wells as his mother, but all that mattered was that Patrick was here and he was holding Pete’s hand and crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “Dopamine” by Anarbor.

     “Peter? Peter, are you awake? Can you hear me, Peter?” Pete groaned and turned his head slightly. It hurt. _Everything_ hurt. Even parts he never knew he had  _hurt._ What he meant to say in that moment was, “Fuck off, let me sleep,” What actually came out was, “Uuuhhhhhhhhhhhhh...” and a weak middle finger to the poor nurse’s face. He heard a soft huffing sound as the nurse said, “I guess that answers that. So, Peter-“ 

     “He goes by Pete,” a voice that was not his own interrupted. It wasn’t Patrick, like he’d hoped, but his mother. “Mrs. Wentz, please, he’s in a state of shock-“ his mother waved a hand in her face, “Call me Dale,” the nurse raised an eyebrow, but continued, “ _Dale,_ then. Dale, he’s in a state of shock, the last thing he needs is another person in the room-“

     “Like hell I’m leaving. If that kid,” she jerked her head in a direction Pete didn’t have the energy to look in, “Gets to stay, then so do I,” the nurse shut her mouth. “I’m going to uh...get the doctor. I’ll...be back,” she turned away, her bottle-blonde ponytail whipping the side of her head as she walked off. Pete’s mother turned on him with murderous intent. “Peter. Lewis. Kingston. Wentz. III,” she said every word with finality, like it was the last he’d hear.

     Pete mentally prepared himself, for what, he didn’t know, because he’d rather be safe than sorry. What he didn’t expect was a low groaning noise from next to him. He thought maybe his dad had come along, but he was nowhere to be seen. Probably at work. He made a massive effort to turn his head. His heart both jumped for joy and jumped off of a cliff when he saw Patrick sitting next to him in the shitty hospital chair, his face under his trucker cap, his sideburns looking unkempt. His mother turned towards the sound as well and scowled. Apparently she didn’t think much of Patrick in that moment.

     “What on earth were you  _thinking,_ Pete?” He opened his mouth to speak, but his mother cut him off, saying, “Obviously you weren’t,” she sighed and ran a hand down her face, before saying tearfully, “Oh, Pete, I’m so glad you’re okay. I’m just so worried, honey, I’m worried about you...” she ran a hand over his cheek, smiling softly. “You’ve got some stubble coming in, sweetheart. Were you able to figure out shaving all by yourself?” Pete butted her hand away, saying, “Yes, mom, I’m not five. I shaved my legs for long enough that I think I can shave my face pretty okay,” his mother smiled sadly.

     “Pete...” she said, her expression falling. He almost asked what was wrong, asked why he was in the hospital, when reality finally hit him. The pain in his forearms made sense. Patrick snoozing in the chair beside him made sense, all of it  _made sense._ “Pete, you’re lucky they got you stabilized when they did. Just a little longer...well, you would have been fine, but the fourth person in the room wouldn’t have,” it took him a moment to catch on to what she was saying before his hand shot to right between his hipbones, right where the bartskull was and right where the baby would be. He hissed at the pain in his wrists. He glanced at the heavy, flesh-colored bandaging around his arms and was reminded far too strongly of when he would bind his chest with Ace bandages. His mother was obviously thinking the same thing, as she frowned and said, “It’s only for a little while, until the stitches are healed enough to be taken out. You’ve been comatose for about three days, and you’ve healed quite a bit since then...”  _Three days. Three fucking days._ His mouth felt dry.

     His mother didn’t seem to notice, or just didn’t care, because she had moved onto something else entirely. She glanced over at Patrick, whose hat had fallen off his face and was drooling slightly as he napped in the chair. “It’s his, isn’t it? The baby?” Pete felt his face flush and he nodded. His mother sighed. “Peter. Patrick’s eighteen. You’re twenty-three, Pete, _twenty-three and eighteen._ You’re not ready to be parents. You should have been more careful, if I’d have known you were having sex with him, I would have spoken with him-“

     “Mom,”

     “Oh, Pete, you’re old enough now that I shouldn’t have to give you the safe sex talk-“

      _“Mom,”_

“And now you’re about to be a...a  _father who’s pregnant-“_

_“MOM!”_

She finally shut up and listened to him, now that her Concerned Mother Rant was over. “We _were_ being safe. We used protection no matter what we were doing. Every time a condom broke, he’d...you know, and the one time he didn’t, I took a morning after pill and got sick and couldn’t take it again. One time, we fucked up-“

     “Language, Peter Wentz!” 

     “-and we forgot to use a condom. I thought it’d be fine, especially because I bled the next day, but I guess it was a freak bleed, because this happened,” he gestured at his belly, which was covered with a white hospital sheet. “Listen, Mom,” He said, his voice breaking. “Feel free to kick me out. Feel free to castrate Patrick. Feel free to make me abort it if you want, just...” he curled in on himself slightly, “Just don’t make me feel like it’s my fault,”

     Dale clasped her hands over her mouth. “Oh, Pete...I’m sorry, honey, I don’t mean to-“ she was interrupted by Patrick groaning again and shifting slightly. Maybe he was going to wake up soon? Dale sighed and looked back at Pete. “He’s hardly left your bedside. When he first said he was the father, I only thought he was saying that to be able to stay with you, oh, he’s hardly left your side these past few days, but...the way he looked at you, the way he held your hand and cried when they said they didn’t know if the baby would make it if they weren’t able to give you blood, there’s a shortage right now, and soon...he gave you blood, Pete. He’s type O, universal donor. He gave blood, Pete. He is the father, I knew right then, I just...wanted to make sure. That boy  _loves_ you, Pete, he loves you to death. Make sure you don’t let him go,”

     Pete looked over at Patrick’s slumbering form. He probably wasn’t waking up anytime soon, now that a quick glance at the clock revealed that it was still before noon, so he was probably just having a weird dream. He...gave Pete blood? A quick glance at his arm revealed some bruising and an old Band-Aid in the crook of his elbow. Pete’s heart swelled three sizes and he was strongly reminded of the Grinch. 

     Dale leaned down and kissed Pete’s forehead. “Get some more rest, sweetheart. I love you,” Pete mumbled an “I love you, too,” in return, already feeling sleep pull him in.

     He was awoken to a completely different scene. His whole band was there, as well as his mother, and a glance at the clock said it was nine P.M. pretty much on the dot. Andy was now snoozing in the chair Patrick was on, his greasy ginger hair obscuring his face aside from his crooked glasses. His mother was scowling, watching disapprovingly as Joe stood in the corner, pulling the leaves off of the plastic flowers with a dopey expression on his face. Pete didn’t even want to  _know_ how much weed that boy had smoked before coming here.

     The one thing that really mattered, though, was Patrick. Patrick who was holding his hand in a firm grip, who looked at him as though he might fly away if he let go too soon. Pete’s heart melted. “Hey, Lunchbox,” He said gruffly, a small smile crossing his face. He hardly noticed Joe turning around with a shocked expression of Andy jumping awake. All that mattered was Patrick.

     “Pete...” Patrick’s hand was warm against his own icy one. Joe and Andy were there, too, somewhere in the back of his mind, as wells as his mother, but all that mattered was that Patrick was here and he was holding Pete’s hand and crying his baby blues out. “Pete...” he said again, almost disbelieving, as he leaned down and pressed the softest of kisses to Pete’s lips. He could practically  _hear_ his mother’s disapproval, but he really didn’t care. “Why...” Patrick asked when he pulled away, but Pete silenced him with another kiss. “I wasn’t thinking. I thought you’d hate me. I was in shock, Trick, and I’d rather not discuss it. They’re going to keep me here for at least three more days to see if I’m not crazy, and that’s all I’ll be talking about,” 

     “Pete...did you mean what you said to me? That night? You said you loved me...is that true?” Pete’s chest tightened and his breathing picked up. The heart monitor next to him beeped like crazy. His pulse oxygen jumped from 94% to 100% faster than could be safe. Patrick tensed and Pete forced himself to calm down. “Yes,” He said, barely audible. He was scared, so, so scared of what Patrick might d-oh.  _Oh._ That felt nice; Patrick’s lips were warm against his own. “I love you, too, Pete. We’ll figure this out...but I think the guys wanna talk to you,”

     Patrick backed off, far too soon for Pete’s liking, but then he had a light punch to the shoulder from one softly smiling Andy Hurley and a lapful of Joe Trohman’s head, which was now pressed against his belly and practically screaming, “When will I feel kicking?!” Andy punched Joe, a little harder than necessary and told him to knock it off.

     He hugged them both best he could with hurting arms and soon the doctor came back in and shoved them all away. He made Pete piss in a cup (he hated pissing in a cup) and had a nurse take a small blood sample and made him eat nasty hospital meatloaf and Jell-O that was mostly water. He raised Pete up slightly and asked him questions like, “How long have you been on testosterone?” And “Are you on birth control?” And “When was your last cycle?” And “Are there any other potential candidates for the father? Er, other...father?” He answered them all truthfully, barely opening his mouth for the last one as a slightly offended “No!” left him. 

     The doctor sighed and closed his notebook. “Get some rest, Pete,” and before he was even out the door, Pete was asleep again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d say I have tumblr, but...y’all know. Y’all know. Also, as mentioned in this chapter, the Red Cross and patients there constantly need blood, and I encourage you to donate if you are able. Know your blood type and donate when you can. I donate every time my school holds blood drives, and so does my girlfriend, so please, please donate. Speaking of my girlfriend, I will be taking some time off of writing for a bit to spend some time with her back home. Anyway, hope you enjoyed!!


	7. Bury All Your Secrets in my Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every time Pete looks at his body, now, he sees them as they were. The scars. All the scars, from a time in his life he’s blocked out. He sees them, fresh and pink and oozing blood, like they were when he slashed himself with knives and glass and razor blades from school-issued plastic pencil sharpeners. With every scar lies a secret, and Patrick kisses every scar and treasures every secret. He takes the broken pieces of Pete Wentz and stitches them back together and then takes them apart again in the best possible way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “Snuff” by Slipknot. Trigger warning: Self-harm and heavy mentions of self-harm scars. Please be careful reading this. I had trouble writing this, and my roommate cried at one point when she read it. Please, be warned.

     They kept Pete in hospital for a week. During that time, he got three psych evaluations (he either hit on the female psychiatrists or offered to suck the male ones’ dicks. They finally got him an old fart of a man who wouldn’t take Pete’s bullshit. He was strongly reminded of an eighty-year-old Patrick.), had a lot of really shitty meatloaf, pissed in a cup more times than he could count, had the bottle-blonde nurse examine his cunt a lot closer than anyone other than himself or Patrick ever had (she said it looked purple. Was that a bad thing? He asked. No, it just meant he was pregnant.), and refused the offer of letting a doctor look at his shit numerous times. What was it with doctors and literal shit?

     He was also prescribed some prenatal vitamins, a different shot schedule, a different type of testosterone (he did  _not_ enjoy getting his ass out for the bottle-blonde nurse. Judy? Jenny? Something with a “J”?), an antidepressant, an anti anxiety pill, and something new for his bipolar disorder.

     Patrick visited him every day. Once, he brought a bona fide bag of Doritos. He told Pete the ending to that show they’d been watching. He kissed Pete and told him how much he loved him every day. He pissed off a lot of doctors doing the kissing.

     When they finally released him, the first thing he did was throw up all that nasty meatloaf (and the sort-of okay bacon) into their parking lot. He was released at 4:00 P.M.. Morning sickness doesn’t just come in the mornings is a fact that Pete is learning the hard way.

     His parents drove him home. His mother eyed him concernedly from the front seat, and his father would look back at him every once in a while. They looked at him like they would a dying puppy, and he hated it. He wanted to make them pull over and scream at them to stop looking at him like that. His mother seemed to read his mind and immediately turned her eyes downward. She set her hand on his father’s knee and his eyes shot straight back to the road.

    He let himself into the house, his parents always left the door unlocked, and immediately gagged at the smell of his favorite candle. Normally, he loved the smell of a strawberry candle, but now it smelled like strawberry plastic mixed with soymilk mixed with all sorts of other disgusting things and made ten times stronger. His father noticed the face he was pulling and said, “Something wrong, so- oh. Is the...is the candle too strong?” Pete nodded weakly, feeling queasy again. His mother ran to blow out the candle and quickly apologized as Pete ran into his bedroom.

     He pressed his face into the pillow. It obviously hadn’t been washed since the day he left, because it still smelled faintly of Patrick. He buried himself a little deeper. Patrick had his first time here, in this room, on this bed, with this Pete Wentz. The Pete Wentz that fell in love with Patrick past the point of no return that night. Pete remembers every detail so vividly. Patrick’s eyes shone with actual innocence, the way he kissed was almost shy.

     Pete on top of him, his latex-covered cock sliding in and out at a slow, almost loving pace. Patrick’s bare body, with his baby fat still clinging to his hips and shoulders and belly and thighs. Patrick’s skilled hands teasing Pete’s breasts with so much dexterity that afterwards Pete asked if it was really his first time. Patrick’s mouth on Pete’s cunt, his soft lips closing around his clit. PatrickPatrickPatrick.

     Pete was very close to reaching down and jerking himself off to the thought of his and Patrick’s first time, how good Patrick had gotten at everything (not that he wasn’t good before) since the first time, how he had fallen in love even more that night, when the phone rang, distracting him from his mission. It was Joe, saying that a band meeting was necessary. He sounded slightly less baked than usual, so it was probably serious. He supposed that they would be talking about The Baby Thing and The Suicide Thing. He sighed and tugged on a thick coat to try and hide his breasts. Even if he wanted to wear his binder, his breasts had grown ever so slightly, and seeing as how he could barely fit into his binder even before, there was no way in hell he could wear it now.

     He managed to convince his mom (his dad was at work) that he had to work some things out with the band, and that yes, he’d be back by a reasonable time, and no, there wouldn’t be any mailboxes smashed this time. He began his walk and his mom honked at him as she drove by him on her way to work. It was about twenty minutes to Joe’s, but by the time he made it, he felt queasy. He threw up in Joe’s mom’s geraniums (sorry, Mrs. Trohman!) And let himself in.

     He was hit with the reek of weed before anything else. He supposed Joe’s mom was out, so he was probably smoking upstairs and celebrating. Before he knew it, Joe’s head was against his stomach and he said, “When will I feel kicking?!” Andy hauled him away from Pete’s belly and told him to go...do something else. He gave Pete this look of  “I’m sorry, man,” before he said, “Let me go grab Patrick, he’s probably thinking about chord progressions or some shit like that,” and then he was off.

     Pete sat at the dinner table, twiddling his thumbs. Joe came back into the room, but instead of molesting Pete’s belly, he offered Pete a beer from the fridge. Just as he was refusing for the fourth time, Andy came in with Patrick and took the beer out of Joe’s hand, opened it, poured it into the sink, and then threw the empty can at Joe’s head. “He can’t drink, dumbass,” Joe looked slightly put out, but took his seat across from Pete.

    Andy sat at the head of the table and Patrick sat next to Pete. Patrick looked as bad as Pete felt. He was paler than usual and he looked like he hadn’t showered in a while. There were heavy dark circles under his eyes, and Pete wanted to kiss them away. “So,” Andy said, “Since Joe is too baked to do anything other than eat whatever’s left in his mom’s fridge, Patrick hasn’t slept in three days, and Pete is...in a different situation, I’ll take the lead on this. Let’s address the elephant in the room here-ugh, Joe, no there’s no actual elephant in th-you know what, fine go ahead play with the elephant. Let’s address the entire thing we’re here for. Number one: Pete’s pregnant with Patrick’s kid,” that seemed to get everyone’s attention, even Joe, who was out of his seat and eating instant mashed potatoes out of a mixing bowl. “Number two: Pete tried to kill himself,” Joe set down his mashed potatoes at that. Patrick wrapped and arm around Pete’s shoulders almost protectively, and Pete hung his head. 

     Andy sighed. “Someone had to say it, and I’m the only one who’s currently stable enough to do so. Anyway, we should probably talk about what this means for the band. We can’t go on tour with Pete pregnant, it’ll be way too stressful for him, and being in such crowded places could get him sick, not to mention walking around with a pregnant man will be like asking to get mugged, or worse, have Pete murdered,” Pete tensed. His initial response was to clap back with a snarky comeback, but he held his tongue. “We should probably wait until the baby is born to really start up again. When Pete starts showing is when we should ease up on practices, because I’m not sure Pete’s back can handle that much stress,” Pete opened his mouth to protest, but Andy shut him up with a quick glare and a clipped, “No buts, Pete. You’d miscarry or throw your back out if you tried to play when you’re showing,” Pete flipped Andy the bird but didn’t say anything.

     “And another thing,” Andy continued, grabbing a Rockstar from the fridge and cracking it open, “We all know Pete has never been the best with his mental health, but this...is a whole new low. He’s never come this close to actually committing suicide before. I say we stop practice altogether until he’s pronounced stable,” Pete stood up and made an indignant sound. “That’s bullshit! Practice is the one stable thing in my life, Hurley! You can’t take that away from me!” He would have kept yelling, kept screaming and pitching a fig until he got his way if Patrick hadn’t set a gentle hand on his arm and said, “Pete, don’t,” in this hurt, pleading tone. Pete sat back down with a gruff little, “Fine,”

     Joe brought the conversation back to life with a loud cry of, “I want Taco Bell!” which sounded more like, “My aunt hockey hell!” around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. Andy sighed and threw  a pen cap that had been sitting by his hand at Joe’s head; it got caught in his ridiculous hair, which was honestly getting out of hand. Pete made a mental note to sit him down and buzz it off. (Three weeks later, when Joe was asleep, he did just that. A year later, they posed for the cover of Take This to Your Grave. Joe’s hair had still not recovered. Fifteen years after the album dropped, Joe has still not forgiven him.) Andy sighed and agreed to go get Joe some tacos before shooing Pete and Patrick out the door.

     Night had already fallen. Pete walked in step with Patrick. “So...how did your mom take the news?” Patrick shrugged. “She took it well, considering. She yelled for about ten minutes, then cried about being too young to be a grandma, then cried about me being too young to be a dad, then cried about me growing up, then just generally cried about the baby,” Pete smiled. “Well, at least she took it alright. My mom...she took it a little worse. She’s worried I’m gonna like...die in a hate shooting or something,” Pete get Patrick tense. “I’m worried about that, too, Pete. It’s not every day you see a pregnant man,” Pete cracked a smile. “I’ll be a damn sexy pregnant man, Lunchbox. Sexiest pregnant man you ever seen,” Patrick made a sound halfway between a snort and a sneeze. “Only pregnant man I’ve seen. But yeah, still the sexiest,” Pete smiled a little bigger at that and grabbed him round the neck, giving him a noogie and knocked his hat like he used to before Patrick was legal and fucking became the new giving noogies. Patrick wiggles out of his grip and picked his hat back up 

     Patrick was nice enough to walk Pete home. His parents were back from work, so he must have been out longer than expected. They didn’t say anything to him, though, when he came in the door, just focused harder on their terrible reality tv. Pete went back up to his room.

     Pete stripped down to his skivvies as soon as he got up to his room. He examined his body thoroughly. His breasts had swelled ever-so-slightly, and his nipples were even darker. His ribs stuck out awkwardly, as did his hipbones and his collarbones. There was a small gap between his thighs that was never there before, and if he turned to the side, the small pooch below his navel he’d always had was gone. (He once asked an anatomy professor why that little pooch never went away no matter how much he worked out. After telling the professor that he was trans, the professor explained that the uterus pushed on the rest of the tissue there, causing that little bit of pooching. It would only ever go away if he lost fifteen pounds or more or if he got a hysterectomy.)

     He frowned and pressed below his navel but above his bartskull, right where his baby would be. He couldn’t feel anything yet, of course he couldn’t, he wasn’t even seven weeks along, but he wanted to feel his baby kicking. He wanted to feel the tingles every time the baby bounced on his bladder or every time it rolled around in its sleep. He wanted to hear his baby’s heartbeat and eventually its laughs and cries and Pete’s heart swelled. He thought of the face Patrick’s might make when he held their child, and his heart felt like it had grown three more sizes. Maybe it would be twins, or even triplets. What would it be like to have two or even three babies in his arms, two in his and the other in Patrick’s, or one for each of them to hold and wow, he needs to stop being so fucking domestic, because he really doesn’t want to think about those things.

     His heart sinks when his scars start sticking out. Scars across his breasts and belly and thighs and wrists and shoulders and every bit of skin he could reach, everything from old, barely noticeabls little white lines to the new ones with their ugly scabs on his wrists. Scars from when he’d felt like a stranger in his own body, from when he had long hair and wore a bra and panties and the occasional  _dress_ and felt out of place in his own body. From when his depression got bad and he wanted to  _feel something,_ something other than the deep, emotionless abyss of his mind. Pete pushed the thoughts away and crawled into bed, letting sleep overtake him.

     He woke up at about seven and took his newly prescribed pills, and then not five minutes later, he threw them up. Pete at some dry toast in hopes of maybe gettin some nutrition and gaining a little weight back. He chucked that into the toilet as well. His mother suggested hot tea with some honey and lemon, as that had helped her when she was pregnant, so he fixed some and threw that up, too.  _Morning sickness is a bitch,_ Pete thought as he downed a glass of water. He only barely managed to keep it down.

     The rest of the day was spent lazing around the house. His dad had a day off from work, so he spent some time after he felt better kicking his dad’s ass at backyard soccer. He fixed dinner with his shaky cooking skills, and even managed to keep it down. The same could not be said for his father, who took one bite of his burger and immediately spit it into the trash and looked at Pete with something akin to horror. “How much  _salt_ did you use, Pete?” Pete shrugged and reached for another burger. He was honestly probably immune to the taste of salt because of how much expired ramen and easy-mac he’d been eating on tour. 

     Pete went to bed again that night thinking of his scars. Maybe his medicine was screwing him up. Some twisted part of his mind wondered,  _How can Patrick ever love something like you? Scarred and disgusting, Pete. Scarred and unwanted,_ Pete forced the little voice to shut up as he fell into fitful sleep.

     He had his first appointment with a gynecologist since...ever, really, the next day. Dr. Alexianna Morisette, OB/GYN, was a black lady who may just have been a little person, as she hit about four-feet-two with four-inch heels. She was about thirty years old, had huge brown eyes made even bigger with wire-rimmed glasses, a septum ring that really suited her, a white tattoo of a bartskull behind her ear (Pete wasn’t sure how feel about that), and a massive afro held back with a pink sweatband. She wore a floral grey shirt and soft blue pencil skirt and didn’t take bullshit from anyone. Pete immediately had a raging crush on her.

     Dr. Morisette, like the bottle-blonde nurse from the psych ward, examined his cunt and said it looked purple, meaning he was hella pregnant. She moved to press on his stomach and frowned, her glass slipping down the bridge of her nose. “How far along are you?” She asked, slipping off her gloves and scratching at her afro. “Uh...pbbht...seven weeks? Six or seven? Something like that?” Pete scratched his own head as Dr. Morisette removed his feet from the stirrups and moved said stirrups away. “If we’re lucky, we can see the baby on an ultrasound and maybe see the heartbeat. The heartbeat usually starts around six weeks, so since you’re at seven, we just might be able to see it. If you want, of course,” she added a little too quickly, glancing between Pete and his mother. “Yeah. Yeah, I...I wanna see the heartbeat,” Dr. Morisette smiled softly, flashing pretty, white, slightly crooked teeth. “Alright. I’ll grab an ultrasound and an orderly and see if we’re lucky. I’ll be about fifteen minutes,”

     Half an hour later (yay, hypochondriac parents who think their twelve-year-old daughter skipping one period is a disaster), there was an orderly spreading lubricant onto Pete’s belly and Dr. Morisette hooking him up to a heart monitor and some other machine. She turned on the ultrasound and moved the probe along his belly, stopping just above his bartskull, right on a particularly nasty scar. She made a face that had Pete’s heart thumping as she made a little “Huh” noise in the back of her throat. Her afro was blocking the screen, so Pete couldn’t see what was on it. His heart rate spiked a little more as Dr. Morisette looked at one of the machines and said, “Well, Papa, Grandma, looks like we’ve got double trouble. Congratulations, you’re having twins,” Pete’s mouth went dry. Twins? Fucking  _twins?_ Pete’s heart lept and his gut dropped at the same time. “You’re skinny right now, but you’ll be big as a house, soon. Let me show you,” she pointed at lines on the heart monitor. “This is your heartbeat, Mr. Wentz,” she pointed at the biggest one. “And this,” She pointed at the one below it, “Would be the heartbeat if you were having one baby. But this,” she gestured to a third line, “Is the other heartbeat, signaling that there’s twins. Now, this could be wrong, but, if we look here,” she brought the screen over, pointing two two shrimp-shaped dark splotches on the screen, “There are two fetuses here, so you’ve got twins. You won’t be able to tell if they’re identical or fraternal until they’re born, and the gender obviously until about fifteen weeks, but...good luck with two little ones. Is the, ah, other father still in the picture?” Pete nodded and winced at the blazing look in his mother’s eyes. He suddenly felt very bad for Patrick’s balls.

     “Well, that should at least make things easier. So, Mr. Wentz, would you like babys’ first pictures?” Pete cracked a smile, “Please, call me Pete, sweetheart,” Dr. Morisette raised an eyebrow and said, “Okay then, Pete, call me Alexi. Would you like a sonogram or not?” Pete nodded at Dr. Mo-Er, Alexi. “Okay. I will have them mailed to you, they should be there within a week or so. In the meantime, and after, I highly recommend sticking to things like dry toast, rice, applesauce, bananas, things that you’ll be able to hold down easily. No caffeine, no seafood, obviously no drugs or alcohol, and..avoid extremely rough intercourse for the duration of the pregnancy. I’m glad you’ve stopped wearing a binder, because you could really disrupt your milk supply and hurt yourself. If you have any trouble, don’t hesitate to make a call, and also, Pete?” Pete turned to her, “I hope your band works out. I’ve heard you playing a few times, and you’re not too bad. Also, um...” Alexi turned to his mother, before whispering in Pete’s ear, “Is your guitarist high? Just generally? I’ve seen him wandering around, and he looks high,” Pete just nodded. “Might I also ask,” Alexi said this bit aloud, “Is the father in your band?” Pete smiled and his heart melted at the mention of Patrick. “Yeah. Yeah, he is. The singer,” Alexi smiled. “You’ve got yourself a good man, there. Wish mine was like that,” she sighed. “It’s not time for sob stories, though, so I should go and you two can...go get ice cream or something, and Mrs. Wentz can castrate your boyfriend,” Pete winced.

     Once he was dressed, his mom dropped him off at home and left for work almost immediately. Pete fixed some plain applesauce on toast for lunch, and threw that up, so he ate unsalted jook* instead, and managed to keep it down. He ate three helpings before he felt mildly ill, so he set the bowl on the floor for the cat to lick and went back to his room.

     He stripped down again, something he’d been doing nightly for a few days now. It was barely three in the afternoon, but he felt like he needed to. He examined himself in the mirror, staring at his body. His breasts were the same as they were two days ago, slightly fuller than usual, his nipples dark and rosy. His tattoos were stark against his skin, and the scars were even more so.

     Every time he sees himself, he sees his scars. Scars from times he’d blocked out, scars from razor blades and kitching knives and pieces of glass from his alleyway. Scars from when he was young, so young, thirteen and crazy and tried to cut his breasts off. A scar along his inseam, slightly hidden by his pubic hair, from when he was twelve and on his period and wanted to rip his uterus out. Scars along his hips and thighs when he thought they were too curvy. They were curvier, now, his hormones going crazy and puffing his hips slightly. If he turned, he could see the bump from all the jook he ate...and nasty scars on his sides. He could feel tears start to slide down his cheeks. 

     He ran his hands along his sides, feeling tiny scars as more tears slipped out. Pete was sobbing now, something few people had ever seen him do, ugly tears and loud choking noises. He dug his fingers into his skin, nails clawing and drawing blood. He was vaguely aware of his phone ringing, but he didn’t answer it. He just dug his fingers in harder, drawing more blood. He moved his fingers to where the babies were, digging in and in and in, drawing more blood, crying even harder.

     He fell to the floor, his nails still digging into his belly, bleeding into the carpet. He felt fresh, hot tears stain the carpet. He heard the door unlocking, maybe his mom was home. Maybe she’d call the police and have them lock him up, lock him awayawayaway. The thought tantalized and terrified him, and he laughed aloud. He saw the door to his room burst open, felt two strong arms around him, lifting him up. “Pete,” It was Patrick. Patrick dragged him into the bathroom and cleaned up his wounds even as Pete laughed like a maniac. He grabbed the medications and poured them into the toilet, flushing them. Pete, somewhere where his brain was sane, knew the medicines were causing this, but he could only stop laughing when Patrick dunked his face into a sink full of cold water. Pete snapped back to himself and pushed Patrick’s hand out of his hair. He pulled out of the water, shaking.

     “I’m sorry...I didn’t mean...” Patrick shut him up with a kiss. “Don’t be sorry. It’s not you. It’s the medicine, they shouldn’t have put you on that. I did some research, and anyone who’s pregnant should never take that stuff, it makes them have extreme suicidal thoughts. Come on, let’s get you to bed,”  Pete nodded, standing weakly.

     Patrick handed him a pair of boxers and Pete tugged them on, crawling into bed. “Patrick...how can you love someone like me?” Pete asked in a small voice. Patrick kissed him again, running a finger along Pete’s stubbly cheek. “Because I do. Because I love Pete Wentz, the guy who give me noogies and called me Lunchbox and Healthbar and teases me for being fat. Because I love Pete Wentz, the guy who gives me blowjobs in motel rooms and screams my name when he cums. Because I love Pete Wentz, the guy who licks my face onstage and lets me finger him in the back of the van. Because I love Pete Wentz, the guy who, with Joe’s help, got me high for the first time. Because I love you, the man who I lost my virginity to, my first and only, the man who’s carrying my child and I  _still_ can’t beliece that, the man that I’m going to be a father with to a beautiful baby that wears eyeliner and skinny jeans and has sideburns. Because I love you, Pete Wentz, and I’ll never stop. I’ll move to Canada and marry you there, just to come back here and say I have a husband. Pete...I love you,” he kissed Pete once more, all tender lips and soft nips of teeth. Pete smiled into the kiss, before pulling away and saying, “I should probably mention it won’t be just one eyeliner-wearing, sideburn-sporting baby,” Patrick’s eyes widened. “Twins?” Pete nodded, curling in on himself and saying, “You really knocked me up, Lunchbox. You’ve got some strong swimmers,” Patrick kissed him again, smiling even more. “Twins,” He said, resting a hand on Pete’s belly. “Twins,” Pete repeated.

    Pete didn’t mean for Patrick to move on top of him, he really didn’t, but it just happened. Patrick kissed every inch of him, ran his tongue over every scar and made Pete crazy. He took the broken pieces of Pete Wentz and put them back together and shattered him all over again in the best way. With every scar lies a secret, and Patrick kisses every scar and treasures every secret. Pete wants to bury himself in Patrick’s skin and never leave, wants to give the world to Patrick and then give him some more. 

     They lay on the bed, side by side, panting. “You’re so beautiful,” Patrick says, running his fingers along Pete’s stubble. “Nah,” Pete said, smiling. “Nah, Healthbar, I’m the sexiest damn thing you ever seen,” Pete feels Patrick smile and feels him say, “Yeah. Yeah, you are,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you beautiful lovelies enjoyed! Mwah! Also, I’m writing this note on Dec 21, so to all my fellow pagans and witchy people: Blessed Yule! To anyone else: happy whatever holiday you celebrate!  
> Edit on Dec 25: Merry Christmas!


	8. Why Don’t You Just Drop Dead?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was probably the worst fight Pete and Patrick had had since Pete drunkenly passed out on Patrick’s bed and then thrown up on his sheets. They weren’t at blows yet...yet being the operative word. He only stopped yelling at Patrick when he felt the little bubbling feeling that he thought was just gas turn into a sharp pain. He gasped and doubled over the counter, feeling himself cramp up as the sharp pain turned back into little bubbles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you didn’t know, title taken from “A Little Less Sixteenth Candles, A Little More “Touch Me”” by Fall Out Boy.

     At week nine, Pete noticed that he had gained ten pounds in two weeks, and his thighs had plumped back out. At ten weeks, ten pounds turned into fifteen and he had the strange urge to eat barbecue-flavored Lays potato chips nonstop. His mother stocked up on said potato chips and half of them were gone by the time week eleven came along (week eleven was also when he buzzed Joe’s hair off in his sleep. Joe almost hit him until Andy stopped him from hitting a pregnant...person.) Patrick brought three more family-sized bags and they were all gone in three days. His mother was slightly worried about his potato chip intake, especially after his morning sickness in earlier weeks, but he seemed to be keeping them down better than anything else, including the diet of bananas, rice, applesauce, and toast Alexi had put him on.

     Week twelve marked his second ultrasound, and, according to Alexi, the babies being about the size of plums. To Pete, they still looked like shrimp. Week thirteen marked his first weird craving: pickles, bananas, and barbecue-flavored Lays potato chips, on thick pieces of white bread slathered with mayonnaise. His mother was kind enough to indulge him and make him the horrid-smelling sandwiches, but his father gagged at the sight of them, especially if he saw Pete sitting on the sofa and watching a random sitcom, stuffing his face with bite after bite of his sandwich.

     Eventually, at week fourteen, he was pronounced mentally stable by the shrink, and wasn’t showing too much quite yet. He couldn’t wear a binder anymore at all, as his breasts had swollen to an almost concerning size, but he could still practice. Patrick was not a fan of that, as whenever Pete would say he was tired or felt a little crampy, he forced Pete to sit down and would make him a sandwich. Not that Pete minded, getting mayo-banana-pickle-chip sandwiches whenever he felt a little tired, but it was getting on his nerves a little bit.

     Week fifteen came along, and with week fifteen came...gas. Really,  _really_ bad gas. It irritated everyone in the band, and eventually, Andy deemed him too far along to keep practicing, which Pete denied as quickly as Andy said it, which led to a shouting match, which led to Patrick holding Pete back from hitting Andy.

     With week sixteen came another ultrasound and the babies being the size of avocados, which Pete had also started craving. (He’d told Alexi about his cravings, and she said it’d probably be a rough time with them if they kept coming). She’d asked if he’d wanted to know the sexes, which he’d refused. He wanted Patrick there for that; after all, these kids were half his.

     Week seventeen came along, and with it came irritability and acne, which only strengthened his irritability. His dysphoria was also getting really, really bad as his breasts continued to swell (he had to wear sports bras now) and his belly grew even more. He was starting to have to borrow Patrick’s shirts more often; he couldn’t fit into his own. He snapped at his mom whenever she talked about his pregnancy, he yelled at Andy during their frequent band meetings, he punched Joe every time he’d press his head to Pete’s belly and scream his new favorite words: “When will I feel kicking?!” Joe either never learned his lesson or was too out of it to care.

     Week eighteen came along. Another ultrasound that Patrick wasn’t there for. Pete had asked him to come to all of them except the first, but he’d always made some excuse not to show up. The babies were the size of sweet potatoes, and, as long as everything was okay, they should be kicking up a storm soon. Alexi shooed his mother out of the room during that appointment and asked in a concerned tone, “Pete...is the father really still around? I understand if he’s not, but-“

     “He’s around. He’s just...busy,” was Pete’s answer, and it made him upset just to think about it.

     Pete went over to Patrick’s house after the appointment, hoping to see what was really going on while he was with Alexi. He came in to find Patrick reading a book, standing over the kitchen counter. “Patrick,” Pete said, walking over and knocking the book out of his hands. Patrick jumped, his eyes shooting up to meet Pete’s. “You’re standing there. Doing nothing. What happened to “being busy,” hmm? Just thought you could lie to me and get away with i-“ 

     “Pete. Calm down,” Patrick rested his hands on Pete’s shoulders in a vain attempt to get his attention. “No! I’m not calming down until you tell me what’s going on!” Patrick sighed and moved his hands from Pete’s shoulders. “Pete...I’m sorry, I just-“

     “Oh, sorry? You’re  _sorry?_ Sorry for lying to me? Sorry for making me think you want nothing to do with the babies? Sorry for what part of it, Patrick? Which part?!” Patrick’s voice was slightly raised as he said, “Oh, you think you’re the only one affected by this? You think you’re the only one who has to deal with stress-“

     “Oh, this is a hell of a lot more than stress, Trickyboy. This is me carrying a _set of fucking twins,_ Patrick! This is my life! I’m a man who’s pregnant! I’m putting my life at stake fucking walking outside-“ 

     “Maybe that’s why I haven’t been going with you! Going with you to a fucking gynecologist makes it way too real! Seeing my kids makes it too fucking real-“

     “Oh, it makes this too real? I’m four months pregnant, Patrick,” Pete’s voice was deadly soft, “Four months pregnant with your fucking kids. You got your boyfriend knocked up, or can I even call myself your boyfriend anymore? Is it back to just Pete? Maybe even back to just Wentz? Patrick, this has been real since the moment we didn’t use a condom. If that wasn’t fuckingn enough for you...I don’t know if I want you in these kids’ lives,” 

     That, apparently, was the last straw for Patrick. He pushed Pete by the shoulders against the fridge and Pete’s head banged against the metal door, making him sweat as Patrick held him there. “If you don’t fucking want me in the kids’ lives, then abort them! You and I both know those kids would die if they only had you! You’re dumb and impulsive and insufferable and those kids would starve to death in the first week!” Patrick’s voice went louder and louder as he went on, and oddly enough, Pete felt some little gas bubbles when Patrick got really loud. 

     “Like they’d be any better if they had just you!” Pete screamed back, kneeing Patrick in the gut and successfully knocking him over. The gas bubbles intesified. “You’d fucking drop them the second you tried to pick them up! You wouldn’t know how to hold a bottle right, wouldn’t know how to change a diaper, wouldn’t know anything! You already don’t, fucking dumbass!” The bubbles got almost painful. “You worthless piece of- AGGHHH-“

     Pete cut himself short with a loud groan as a sharp pain hit him right in the gut. For a second, he thought Patrick had hit him, but Patrick looked as shocked as Pete was. Another sharp pain came again, and he backed into and slid down the fridge. This time it was a little lower, and then it hit him: the babies were kicking, and kicking  _hard._ Patrick got up and immediately asked, “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?” His voice held no malice this time round. “They’re...kicking me. They’re kicking, Patrick. I don’t...I don’t think they like us yelling at each other....” the kicking died down, back to the little tingling bubbles he felt earlier. “Shit,” Patrick said, sliding down beside Pete and running a hand down his face. “They’re smarter than us...”

     “I’m...I’m sorry, Pete,” Patrick said, wrapping an arm around Pete’s shoulders. “I meant what I said, when I said seeing them in person would make it way too real, but...I gues I’m just being dumb, pretending that I can be in my own little world until they’re born, pretending nothing is different...I’m sorry. I can only imagine what you’re going through right now,” Patrick rested his head on Pete’s shoulder. “If you want, I’ll go to your next ultrasound-“

     “Two weeks from today. They’re doing mine extra frequently because there’s twins and I’m on testosterone, which can affect some things, so every two weeks. I’ll fill you in: at four weeks, the babies are the size of mustard seeds. Six weeks is the size of a sweet pea, eight is a raspberry, at ten weeks they were kumquats and they had full formed organs and hands and feet and hair -fucking  _hair-_ , and knees and elbows, at twelve weeks they’re plums and sucking their thumbs, fourteen they’re lemons and can get hiccups, sixteen they’re avocados and they can hear now, Patrick you better fucking sing then to sleep, I swear if you don’t I’ll hit you. And right now, I am eighteen weeks. Almost halfway there, man. They’re the size of a sweet potato, getting big. I honestly have no clue how the fuck I’m supposed to pop those things out. They yawn when they’re tired, now. They can feel stuff, now, they have almost-developed nerves. ..” Pete faltered at the expression on Patrick’s face: pure shock. 

     “Those are...my kids...” he said, his voice full of awe. “My kids, Pete. They’ve made it this far...do you know if they’re gonna be boys or girls or one of each or...?” Pete shook his head. “I wanted you to be there when I found out,” Patrick hugged Pete to his chest tightly. “Thank you...thank you. You know what, speaking of the babies being boys or girls...we need to figure out names,”

     And that’s how they found themselves in another band meeting. Joe had suggested that if they had two girls, they name them Dove and Diva. That idea was shot down immediately by Patrick, who didn’t want his kid being called a diva, ever. Andy, Patrick, and Joe fought until Pete yelled at them to shut up, the babies were kicking. That, of course, led to Joe sticking his head to Pete’s belly and screaming, “Why can’t I feel kicking?!” Pete explained as calmly as he possibly could that only he’d be able to gee them kicking until about twenty-four weeks in, and then he added, “Also, if we have daughters, one of them has to be named Persimmon,” There was much arguing among the band until Pete exclaimed, “The first tree I ever grew myself in the backyard was a persimmon tree, and I have a lot of memories from under that tree,”

     Needless to say, after more yelling and more kicking, from the band and the babies, it was agreed that if they had daughters, one would be named Persimmon.

     Patrick went with Pete to his twenty-week ultrasound. According to Alexi, the babies were now the size of bananas. Pete’s heart sank at the thought of pushing them out in four months. Alexi greeted Patrick with enthusiasm, grateful to meet the other father after so long of just seeing Pete. They talked about the kicking, and she said, “If they’re kicking hard enough to cause pain, then you may be able to feel some kicking from the outside, Dad,” she looked at Patrick, “in about a week or so. Let me get the ultrasound and I’ll be right back,” she turned away, her heels click-click-clicking on the tile.

     “Huh. These flowers look like vaginas,” Patrick said, examining the Georgia O’Keefe painting on the wall. “Yeah, because you’ve seen enough normal vaginas to know what one looks like,” Patrick scoffed. “I know what a vagina looks like. Anyway,” he walked over and rested a hand on Pete’s stomach. “Bananas, huh? Getting big,” Pete snorted. “You’re not the one who has to pop ‘em out,” before Patrick could say anyhing else, Alexi brought the ultrasound in and lifted up Pete’s shirt, spreading the gel around and moving the probe to right where-

     “Alright, Dad, other Dad, wanna know the sexes?” Pete nodded vigorously while Patrick said a shaky, “Yeah,” Alexi shifted the probe slightly and pressed a little, saying, “Alright, well we have...one healthy little girl, and...two healthy little girls! Congrats, gentlemen, you have two little girls to spoil,” Pete’s heart fluttered. Two girls, twin little girls. Would they have Patrick’s red/blonde/brown hair and Pete’s whiskey eyes? Or maybe the other way around? Would they be short and stocky like Patrick, or tan and lean like Pete? Maybe a bit of both? “Two girls,” he heard Patrick mumble, and Alexi nodded. “Two girls,” she said. 

     The drive home was full of name ideas for Persimmon’s sister. Names like Gypsy, Bianca, and Fianna were tossed around, until Patrick suddenly said, “Moon. Her name should be Moon. Remember, Pete? The first time I said I loved you, in a romantic way...I remember, it was a full moon. We should name her after that. Moon,” Needless to say, their daughters names would be Persimmon and Moon.

     They didn’t fuck in Pete’s house that night, like they normally would. No, they made love. It was full of sweet kisses and tender touches and soft moans so that Pete’s mom and dad downstairs wouldn’t get mad. This was sweet pleasure and whispers of “I love you” through stifled groans as Patrick slid bare in and out of Pete. This wasn’t fucking, like they normally would. This was lovemaking, something they hardly ever did, but now...now it was all Pete and Patrick had ever wanted. They didn’t chase their release, Pete didn’t even finish. They just laid there, relishing each other’s warmth and saying “I love you,” over and over again. This was perfection. Life was going to get confusing and hard and expensive after Moon and Persimmon were born, but for now...this was all they could ever want, laying in Pete’s bed, cradled in each other’s warmth, under the light of the full moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! And I wish you a happy 2019!


	9. The Chemicals That Make Her Laugh Don’t Seem to be Working Anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No,” Pete said at the shrink’s request to put him on yet another antidepressant. “I’m saying no. I’m moving to another doctor, and reporting you for malpractice. You put me on those pills with a knowledge of me being pregnant, and the pills causin suicidal thoughts. The pills you wanted to put me on just now...” he looked at the name and didn’t bother trying to pronounce it, “I’ve seen the name before. It’s addictive and can cause miscarriage. That’s common knowledge. If you want, I can leave quietly and find another doctor, or things can get ugly and I can scream hate crime,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “She Lays Down” by The 1975.

     Apparently, morning sickness doesn’t understand that it’s only really supposed to show up in the beginning of pregnancy. At least, with Pete it doesn’t. He woke up the very next morning and chucked up everything he’d eaten for dinner, namely, a bag of barbecue-flavor Lays potato chips, a glass of water (it’d normally be Red Bull, but he couldn’t have caffeine. He wasn’t doing too well with that), and three slices of pepperoni pizza. Patrick was soon stumbling into the bathroom after him, running a hand up and down Pete’s back soothingly and muttering tired sympathies into his ear.

    After a good fifteen minutes of Pete chucking up a mixture of dinner and stomach acid, the pair trudged back to bed, Patrick tripping over every other step, Pete waddling slightly due to his ever-growing belly. Patrick was asleep before he even hit the bed, as it was still well before noon, and Pete wasn’t much better.

     Unfortunately, they were woken up just at noon by Pete’s mom. “Pete, wake up! You have an appointment with the psychiatrist, honey. And Pete? Make sure you wash your sheets. I see Patrick in there, and I know you two weren’t braiding your hair and painting your nails last night. You’re not as quiet as you think you are,” her voice was tinged with an odd mixture of disgust and amusement and Pete groaned, both internally and externally as he grabbed the thing nearest to him, an old pair of boxers, and threw it at her. She just sighed and said, “Wash these, too. I have to go to work,” and then she was gone.

     Pete forced himself to get up and throw on some of his (Patrick’s) clothes. He got Patrick up, too, after a lot of shaking his shoulders and licking his ears and a single blowjob. They ate mushy Lucky Charms and talked for a while, as Pete’s appointment wasn’t until two o’clock in the afternoon. Finally, Patrick spoke up about something other than the band or possibly having a small baby shower, and he said, “You know, that doctor should have known not to put you on that medicine. I looked it up, and that stuff...it’s nasty. It causes extreme suicidal thoughts in pregnant people, and any doctor worth his salt should know better than to give it to you of all people, especially with your history...” Patrick pushed the lone blue marshmallow around in his milk. “I’ve been doing some research on medications that people who are pregnant shouldn’t take, and I’ve written a list...” he reached into the pocket of his cargo shorts and pulled out a crumpled sheet of notebook paper. “If he suggests any of these medicines to you, find a new doctor. And Pete...” Patrick pushed his bowl of milk away, which Pete promptly picked up and drank. “I don’t like the way that doctor looks at you. Remember, I met him once? He looks at you like you’re...something that just ate his trash, like you’ve been rotting in a landfill for years or something. I just...I just don’t want him to hurt you. If you don’t mind...I’ll go with you to the appointment and just sit in the waiting room, I don’t want anything happenig to you,” Pete stared into Patrick’s now-empty bowl. “I mean...I think I’ll be okay, but if you’re that worried...I guess it wouldn’t hurt,” Pete said, picking up the bowls and putting them in the sink.

     It wasn’t long before they sat in the waiting room of the shrink’s office. Pete rested a shitty tabloid on his belly while Patrick snoozed away in the seat beside him. After about fifteen minutes, Pete felt tiny hands rest on his belly and a small, squeaky voice say, “Are you gonna be a mommy?” Pete moved the magazine away to see a small girl with long, stringy blonde hair and bug-like grey eyes. She couldn’t have been more than four. “Uhh...” Pete said, his voice scratchy. He elbowed Patrick awake and jerked his head at the little girl, who was now pressing a little bit and saying excitedly, “It’s kickin’ me! It’s kickin’ me!” Patrick just gawked at her.

     “Adelaide? Adelaide! There you are, I’ve been wondering where you ran off...” the woman trailed off. She had the same bug-like grey eyes that the little girl did, and she, too, gawked at Pete. She pulled the girl’s hands off Pete’s stomach and said, “Uh. I’m...sorry, she gets...a little excited over...” she gestured at her own belly, which, Pete had just noticed, was swollen just like his own. “No, no, it’s fine, ma’am,” he said, smiling at them both. The woman didn’t seem bothered by his deep voice, or by the grace of stubble along his jaw, or the way Patrick kept running a hand along his thigh possessively. “Thank goodness...sorry about her. She doesn’t...she has some special needs, and doesn’t know how to contain herself. I’m Piper, by the way, and this is Addy. My partner is still in the car, but - oh, there she is!” Piper turned to wave at someone.

     That someone was possibly the most oddly dressed person Pete had ever seen. She had buzzed red hair, an army-green tank top, electric blue jeans, and, of all things, pink Coverse high-tops. “This is my girlfriend, Rhonnie,” Rhonnie waved and Pete did a halfhearted little wave back. He was quite astonished by this couple’s appearance. Piper was wearing normal maternity clothes, and Rhonnie was wearing, well,  _that._ It freaked him out a little.

     Piper, Rhonnie, and Addy sat next to Pete and Patrick, making both boys a little uncomfortable. Addy refused to leave Piper’s and Pete’s stomachs alone, screaming happily about the babies kicking her. “Oh, I never got your guys’ names,” Piper said, lifting Addy up from the  floor. “Um. I’m. I’m Pete, and this is Patrick,” Patrick made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. Neither Piper nor Rhonnie batted an eye at Pete being pregnant. He supposed Piper’s earlier gawking was because of what Addy was doing. 

     “Pete?” A nurse called. Pete quickly said his goodbyes, glad to be out of the situation with the lesbian family, and waddled to the consultation room. His shrink greeted him with a low grunt, as was usual. There was a half-empty bag of barbecue-flavored Lays potato chips on the table between them, which Pete promptly tore into. “So, Pete. How’s everything been going? I see you’re big as a house,” Pete swallowed dryly around his chips as Dr. Jones spoke. “Well, the medicine you originally had me on made me have extreme suicidal thoughts. My boyfriend almost had to call an ambulance because I was so crazy the night he found me...digging my fingers into my skin and laughing like a crazy person,” the doctor’s face morphed into one of disgust at the word “boyfriend.” Pete’s eyes flicked over to the little recorder in the corner, hoping that Patrick’s suspicions about this doctor were incorrect.

     “So, I’m assuming you stopped the medicine after that incident?” Pete nodded, polishing off the bag and tossing it into the bin. “All of them except the vitamin?” Pete nodded again. “How’s it been since you stopped them?” Pete shook his head from side to side, popping his neck slightly before he said, “I’ve had my ups and downs. Nothing too bad,” Dr. Jones jotted something down in his notebook and said, “Alright. I’m gonna put you on...” he gestured at the name of a medication, and alarm bells went off in Pete’s head. Immediately, he said, “I can’t take that, fuckface, I’m pregnant,” The doctor’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s the doctor here, Ms. Wentz?” Pete immediately corrected him, “Mr. Wentz. I’m not a girl,” the doctor set his notepad down and poked Pete’s belly. “That says something else entirely. You’re disgusting, Ms. Wentz. A woman who thinks she can be a man,” that was the last straw.

     Calmly, Pete stood up and dusted the chip crumbs off himself. He looked at his hands and noticed something: blue crystals. Is that...? “Did you...did you fucking  _drug me?_ What the fuck is this?” He yelled as loud as he could, holding up his hands. “That, dear girl, is rat poison. It’ll kill those monsters you’re calling babies in the next hour, and you not long after. Goodbye, Ms. Wentz,” the doctor said, a cruel smile on his face as he grabbed a heavy-looking lamp from the table and started to swing.

     Before he could, though, someone burst through the door. Patrick. He grabbed the lamp from the doctor’s hands and held him down, yelling for a nurse. One quickly came and looked at the situation, stuttering out, “What happened?” Pete screamed out scaredly, “He poisoned me! Fucking rat poison!” He ran over to grab the recorder and shoved  it at the nurse, hoping she got the message. Seemingly, she did, and grabbed a cell phone from her pocket to call the police.

     They rushed Pete to the hospital and pumped his stomach, finding twice the amount of rat poison it would take to kill a human in his stomach. They took another ultrasound and made sure Moon and Persimmon were okay, and took a blood sample.

     They examined the recording for evidence, and also found the doctor’s credentials to be forged. Pete and Patrick both advocated for him to be taken to prison without a trial, but the police stated that a court date would have to be held. 

     Patrick kissed Pete over and over again, saying a mixture of, “I love you,” “I told you so,” and “Thank god you’re okay.” Pete hugged Patrick and almost didn’t let go until the doctor made him, and then he hugged Patrick some more.

     They got the notice in the mail a week later that the court date was in three weeks. In that time period, Pete hit twenty-four weeks, the babies hit the size of ears of corn, Pete and Patrick fucked a lot (pregnancy made people _fucking horny,_ apparently), and Pete discovered a new craving: peanut butter and coconut sandwiches.

     Dr. Jones, of course, had an amazing attorney, and Pete just had one of the cheapest lawyers they could find, a young one, fresh out of law school. He couldn’t decide if they were screwed or if they’d be fine.

     The loud bang of a gavel brought Pete out of his thoughts. “The court is now in session, would Mr. Patrick Martin Stumph please come to the stand?” Patrick rose from his seat and took the oath. Dr. Jones’s  the attorney asked, “Is your full legal name Mr. Patrick Martin Stumph?” Patrick answered with a quiet, “Yes, sir,” the attorney nodded. “And what is your relation to the accusing?” Patrick swallowed, before saying, “I’m his boyfriend and the father to his children, sir,” the attorney nodded again. “Can you tell me what happened the day my client supposedly attempted to murder Mr. Peter Wentz III?” Patrick nodded.

     “Well, we went to the office, you know, and we sat in the waiting room, as you do, and he went back there, and after about...ten minutes when I heard some yelling. I heard something about being drugged, and ran back there as fast as I could-“

     “So, violating doctor-patient confidentiality?” The attorney said, before Pete’s lawyer stood and said, “Objection, irrelevant to the case at hand,” the judge grunted and shrugged her shoulders, saying loudly, “Objection sustained,” Dr. Jones’s attorney sighed loudly. “Continuing on the topic of Mr. Wentz...he was taking the generic for Klonopin, known as Clonazepam, for his...bipolar disorder, yes?” Patrick nodded. “And he claimed to have suicidal thoughts? Did you see any evidence of this, Mr. Stumph?” Patrick swallowed and said, “Yes, sir. I was going to his house one evening, just to see him, and when I came into the house, I heard this...deranged laughing. I honestly thought he was being murdered. I came into his room to see if he was okay, and he was...sitting on the floor, naked, digging his nails into his sides and his stomach and laughing like a crazy person...he kept digging his nails into his skin, even though he bled more every time-“

     “Mr. Stumph, please spare us the details,” the attorney looked at his watch almost rudely, “We don’t have much time,”

     “Right, sorry sir. So, I did some research, and nobody who is pregnant or nursing should ever take Klonopin, and that is, or should be, common knowledge, in the psychiatric field,” the attorney looked Patrick up and down, before saying, “No further questions,” and Patrick left the stand. “The court now calls Mrs. Piper Jane Smith-Lovelace to the stand,” the judge said, and Piper from the waiting room came up.

     Dr. Jones’s attorney questioned her about her experience in the waiting room, and it was pretty much the same as Patrick’s. They called up Rhonnie, and her testimony was the same. Then, they called up Pete’s mother.

     “Mrs. Wentz, would you say that your son was...acting strangely or more depressed during the time he was taking the medications my client prescribed him?” Pete watched his mother tensely as she said, “Well...he hardly left his room. Normally he...goes out all the time, he likes to go out and play music with his band, go to parties with his friends, but he sort of just...stayed in and lazed around,” the attorney cocked his head and asked, “Are you sure this wasn’t just because of the extra gender dysphoria caused by being pregnant?” She snorted, saying, “I’ve seen my son go through periods before, and he still went out almost every night. If that didn’t stop him, nothing would,” the attorney’s expression soured. “No further questions,”

     “The court now calls Mr. Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III to the stand!” Pete stood nervously, his palms sweaty. “Raise you’re right hand and place your left on the Bible,” Pete did so, hoping his nervousness didn’t show too badly. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” Pete swallowed and said softly, “I do,” the bailiff nodded. “Please take the stand,”

     “Is your full legal name Mr. Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III?” Pete nodded, “Yes, sir,” the attorney pulled his glasses off to wipe them on his jacket, putting them back on and glaring at Pete. “Could you please recount the events on the day my client supposedly attempted to murder you?” Pete swallowed dryly, wiping his sweaty palms on his nicest pair of jeans. “Yes, sir. Uh, like Patrick said, we went to the office, like usual. I went back and...well, it all went as usual. I’d mentioned to him a few times that I’d been craving barbecue chips, and sometimes he’d keep some there. I saw half a bag sitting on the table, so I figured it was for me. Nothing was wrong. He commented on me showing, he asked how I was doing, and then prescribed me a new medicine for my depression. I noticed that it shouldn’t be given to anyone who was pregnant, and I voiced my concern, and then he started saying weird things, calling me a girl and using Ms. and saying I was disgusting. I noticed some blue crystals on me, and I thought he’d drugged me or something, so I asked if he drugged me. He said it was...it was rat poison. It’d kill the...the babies in just an hour,” he heard some muttering from the jury at the mention of babies, “and me not too far behind. He picked up a lamp and...and tried to hit me over the head, but Patrick stopped him,”

     The questioning went on for nearly half an hour, and at the third objection from Pete’s lawyer, he finally said, “No further questioning,”

     “The court calls Mr. David Andrew Jones to the stand,” he took the oath and straight-up lied. He claimed his credentials weren’t forged, even though there was proof they were, claimed he never threatened or misgendered Pete, and also pleaded not guilty to the charge of attempted murder. 

     Soon, the jury went back to discuss, and Pete tucked himself into Patrick’s shoulder. His brain was still reeling after everything, and he felt like he might have a panic attack, or throw up, or both. Not even ten minutes later, the jury returned and the judge banged the gavel for order.

     “On the count of forgery of doctorate credentials, how does the jury find the defendant?” The foreman stood and said in a heavy Mexican accent, “We find the defendant, Mr. David Andrew Jones, guilty,” the judge nodded, a smug expression on her face. “On the count of violation of the non-discrimination act, how does the jury find the defendant?” Again, in a heavy Mexican accent, “We find the defendant, Mr. David Andrew Jones, guilty,” the judge nodded again. “On the account of attempted murder, how does the jury find the defendant,” Pete’s heart was pounding as the next few moments seemed to go by in slow motion.

     “We find the defendant, Mr. David Andrew Jones, guilty,” the judge nodded and said, “The people find the defendant guilty of all charges. He will receive a life sentence on the account of attempted murder, three years on account of forgery of doctorate credentials and will have his medical license revoked, and veil receive ten years in an Illinois state prison. The court is adjourned,” she banged her gavel one last time.

     Pete stood. His legs felt numb, and he felt extremely crampy and strange. He was happy, yes, that he had won the case, but his head felt fuzzy. “Patrick?” He said, and his voice came out thick and slurred. Patrick turned around, smiling. “We  _won,_ Pete. He’s going to prison, he can’t hurt anyone anymore,” he kissed Pete on the lips. Pete slowly felt something wet and thick run down his thighs. It gushed more fully, quicker, and he slowly stuck a hand between his legs. It came back wet with thick, sticky blood. “That can’t be right,” he said, before the ground came at him very, very fast and the world turned to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! And guess what? Ya girl is gonna turn 19 on the 7th of this month! Awwww yeeeahhhhh!


	10. Hey, Moon, Please Forget to Fall Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But...but I’m only 24 we- AAAGHHHHHHHH-“  
> “Yes, but you’re having these kids right now. Something’s gone wrong, and it’s dangerous for those kids if they stay in there. They have a seventy percent chance of survival,” the nurse at his side said as she hooked him up to an IV between contractions. 70/30. For some reason, Pete didn’t like those odds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “Northern Downpour” by Panic! at the Disco. Warning: the following will contain a mildly graphic birth scene. Please, if you are squeamish about blood or somewhat graphic descriptions of vaginas, proceed with caution. (Lol I’m a med student nerd. In case you couldn’t tell by reading the last chapter, I have no knowledge of the legal system. I’ve never even gotten called for jury duty.)

Pete was awoken by the feeling of air rushing through his hair. He was aware that he was on his back, on a bed, and moving. Nothing made sense. His belly hurt. Persimmon and Moon were kicking like crazy, and he felt gush after gush of something wet leave him with every kick. 

     He groaned loudly and the nurse beside him screamed, “He’s conscious! Get him to the delivery room pronto! He’s in labor!” There was a shout of agreement from the various people around him as they pushed him through a set of double doors.

     Wait.

      Delivery room?

      In labor?

      They got him onto another chair-thingy, he honestly wasn’t (and still isn’t) sure what it’s called, and cut all his clothes away. They covered him with a blue medical sheet and wiped the blood from his inner thighs. “What’s going on? What’s happeni-AGGHHHH-“ he cut himself off with a gurgling groan as what he could only describe as...extreme period cramps hit. “What the hell was that?!” He screamed at the poor nurse, who was currently hooking him up to numerous monitors. “A contraction. You’re in early labor, your water has broken. You’re having these babies now,”

     Pete’s mind was reeling. Having them...now? He’s only twenty-four weeks! That’s...that’s not right! 

  “But...but I’m only 24 we- AAAGHHHHHHHH-“  
“Yes, but you’re having these kids right now. Something’s gone wrong, and it’s dangerous for those kids if they stay in there. They have a seventy percent chance of survival,” the nurse at his side said as she hooked him up to an IV between contractions. 70/30. For some reason, Pete didn’t like those odds.

     They set his feet in stirrups and poked and prodded and Pete suddenly felt a wave of dysphoria. His heart rate spiked and his breathing picked up. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t him. This can’t. This won’t. This isn’t. This...no!

     “Pete. Pete, are you with me?” Pete snapped out of his funk as a familiar voice hit his ears. “Alexi?” He said as warm brown eyes softened. “Yes, it’s me. Listen, Pete. I can’t say I know what you’re going through right now, but I know that tough doesn’t cover what you’re experiencing. You’re a man giving birth. I’ve never worked with trans men before, but I’m glad you were my first in that aspect. Listen to me,” she grabbed his hands in her own smaller, warmer ones. “Patrick is out there, worried sick. Your parents are out there pulling their hair out because they don’t know what to think. Your friends, the ginger one and the one that’s always stoned, they’re here, and the one that’s stoned is actually  _stone-cold sober._ I know this is the worst thing that could have happened to you. This is the worst body dysphoria you could have, but if those babies don’t come out, you die, Pete. Those babies die, too. No chance. If nothing else, do it for them. Do it for Patrick. Do it for your parents. Do this for your band. Do this for your  _daughters,_ Pete. These are two people you grew. Two entire other human beings. Two whole people, Pete, that you’re bringing into this world. They have a zero percent chance if you don’t give birth, Pete. They have a seventy percent chance of you do. These girls have a chance, but only if you man up,” Pete cracked a smile, “and do this,” Pete nodded slightly, watching Alexi pull away and leave the room, only to come back five minutes later in a nurse’s gown, latex gloves, a mask, and what looked like a giant hairnet over her afro.

     “Let me see...” she peeked under the gown and said, “Jesus...cervix is dilated...I’d say a full eight centimeters, and actively dilating. Pete, at the speed your cervix is dilating, you have maybe thirty minutes before you’re at a full ten centimeters, and when you’ve hit ten centimeters, I want you to push, like...” Alexi glanced at the doctors around her before saying, “Like you’re going to poop. It’ll be very natural, the feeling to push, and we’ll let you know when you’re good,”

     The next thirty minutes were pure agony for Pete. Between contractions, the odd urge to shit, the occasional slight urge to push, and the doctors peeking between his legs and saying things like, “Vaginal swelling, minimal...” and “Cervical dilation, nine centimeters,” and “We’ll do an episiotomy...” (which, apparently, was literally cutting his vagina to his anus to make room for the baby’s head when it would pop out) and his growing levels of dysphoria, he’d never felt worse. He felt like he might fall apart and the doctors would have to stitch him back together.

     “Cervicam dilation, ten centimeters! Dr. Morisette!” One nurse screamed, immediately catching Alexi’s attention. She knelt between Pete’s legs and poked around a little bit, then said, “Pete, listen to me. Pay attention to me, don’t think about anything but my voice and pushing. Push. I want you to push, big push, honey- there you go,” Pete felt his body tense almost against his will as  _painpainpain_ hit him. “Okay, come on, Pete, push!” Something slippery flopped out of him, and for a second he thought he’d popped one out, but then he heard Alexi say, “It’s okay, we’re cleaning that up, it’s alright, it happens,” and then he realized he had just _fucking shit on the table,_ and he felt a lot of embarrassment before he felt himself push again, “Cone on, Pete! She’s crowning, I can see her head! Come on, keep pushing!”

     Pete pushed again, and almost screamed in pain. He’d heard women talk about childbirth before, but he hadn’t thought it could be that bad. 

     Oh, how wrong he was.

     “Come on! The top of her head is out, keep pushing!” Pete screamed and pushed again, quite literally feeling himself stretch around the baby’s head. Ten minutes later was a loud, “Her head is out, Pete! Just a little more, a little more, Pete!” A few more minutes, “Shoulders!” And then, “She’s out, Pete! She’s out, and she’s so beautiful...” Pete’s heart swelled when he saw a doctor cutting the cord taking her away. He almost reached out to stop the doctor when he remembered: these babies were three months premature. They probably would need an incubator, and might not survive.

     “Okay, this little girl should be easier. Come on, push!” And Pete pushed.

     Ten minutes later, there was an announcement of, “Breech!” And then “Fraternal twins! Separate cord!” And then an announcement of, “Oh my god, get her to emergency, umbilical cord is wrapped around the neck, her face is blue, she’s not crying...” and Pete’s heart sank, before he saw them whisking his second daughter away. 

     He safely delivered the afterbirth. They patched him up best they could and got him into a wheelchair. They only brought in Patrick to see him, and then they were allowed to see Persimmon and Moon. Well, maybe...just Persimmon     Persimmon Angelica Fianna Stumph-Wentz. Of course, Pete had to give her a ridiculously long name, just like his own. She was small, so,  _so small._ Barely over a pound and a half, just twelve inches long. A tiny pink hat sat on her head, keeping her warm. Pete could still see ginger baby hairs on her forehead. Pete’s heart swelled. He made that person. He made Persimmon Angelica Fianna Stumph-Wentz. Patrick sobbed softly beside him. “That’s...that’s our little girl, Pete. That’s her...she’s so beautiful,” Pete didn’t feel in much better condition, ready to cry himself. Suddenly, he said, “One of them,” and his heart sank more.

     Moon Allanah Elizabeth Stumph-Wentz. If one’s going to have a ridiculously long name, might as well go all-out. Neonatal intensive care. The umbilical cord was wrapped around her head and neck seven times. Her head was deformed. She wasn’t breathing for a full four minutes before they got the cord off of her. She was missing a left ear and her entire right hand and arm was deformed. The doctor informed him she had about a ten percent chance of surviving past her first week.

     They couldn’t touch her. She was far too delicate. She had the same ginger baby hairs that Persimmon did, but she was far smaller, barely eighteen ounces and ten inches long. She hadn’t cried at all, and her heart was barely beating. Pete still loved her, though. He couldn’t imagine a life without her, after giving birth to her.

     They were forced to leave and go back into Pete’s room. They’d keep an eye on him overnight, just because his birth was so stressful. His parents came in and gushed over him, saying how amazing he did and how beautiful the babies must be. His band was next, smiling and clapping his shoulders. Andy was slightly less stoic than usual, and Alexi hadn’t been lying when she’d said Joe was stone-cold sober. He was his smiling, happy self, yeah, but...his eyes were clear, and he wasn’t slurring. 

     His band was quickly shipped out by a doctor, and after a quick kiss from Patrick, Pete let himself sleep.

     When he woke in the morning, he felt like he had been chewed up, shit out, eaten by a dog, and thrown up all over again. His stomach hurt. His throat hurt. Everything hurt. He was told that Persimmon was doing fine, she was alright, he could go see her, let her hold his finger.

     Persimmon would be there for another ten days while she developed a bit more, but she seemed pretty stable. She’d probavly be just fine, they’d just have to be extra careful with her, because she was so small. Pete supposed he wouldn’t let Joe hold her, then.

     Her hand was warm when it wrapped around his finger. She had tiny little fingernails and a shockingly strong grip. His heart filled with love and adoration and every other positive emotion out there when she held his little finger. She was so small, her whole hand wasn’t  the size of Pete’s little finger. When she opened her eyes at him, for just barely a second, they were cloudy and grey. Pete’s heart soared. This was his girl. His little girl.

     Moon wasn’t doing too well. Her breathing had slowed, as bad her heartbeat, and she still had not cried. Her head was almost gourd-shaped, there was what looked like scar tissue where her left ear should have been, and her right arm was maybe three inches long, and she had two fingers on that hand. Pete still loved her. She was his little girl. One of his girls. He wanted nothing more than to hold her, cradle her to his chest and hold her tiny little hand and sing her to sleep. But he couldn’t. She was still too weak.

     They sprung him that night. His parents drove him home, but all he could think about were,  _My girls, my girls, my girls._ His mother made spaghetti, which Pete ate cold at midnight with a Red Bull and a bag of barbecue potato chips. Some things will never change.

     He went to see Persimmon and Moon every day. Persimmon only got stronger, she ate more, she stayed awake longer, even started crying more. They might even send her home early, just because she was doing so well. Moon, on the other hand...

     “I don’t think Moon will make it, Pete. I’m sorry, but...she’s just far too weak. Maybe if she was full-term, she’d have a better chance...but her chances of survival are dipping into the single digits. Pete, you...you might want to say goodbye now,” the doctor said, setting a hand on Pete’s shoulder. “I’ll leave you alone for a bit,”

     Pete watched Moon through the glass. She didn’t move, save for the slow, shaky rise and fall of her little chest. Her head had swollen a little, apparently there was some fluid on her brain that they couldn’t drain properly. He felt it in his gut. Moon would die before Persimmon even came home.

     And Pete was right. Moon died of complications due to water on the brain the very next day. Pete didn’t think he’d ever been so depressed. He stopped eating for two days, didn’t shower for two days until Persimmon came home. He held her in his arms and let her sleep on him and bottle-fed her constantly, making sure she was healthy and happy and comfortable, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Moon.

     Patrick came over, held Persimmon in his arms while he fed her. They talked and talked and talked. They talked about the band and future plans for it. They talked about Persimmon. They talked about their relationship. They talked about Moon. Pete cried and cried and cried and he knew Patrick was trying to be strong for him, but eventually Patrick broke and cried, too.

     Pete’s mother took Persimmon from Patrick’s arms and put her to bed. Pete and Patrick went to bed as well. Patrick was out as soon as he hit the bed, but Pete’s insomnia decided to rear its ugly head. He tossed and turned, unable to sleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about Moon, how she died. He cried, thinking that if he had done something better, she might still be here. He might still be pregnant with her and Persimmon, cuddling up to Patrick with a big, fat belly. He cried and cried and cried some more, cried himself to sleep.

     The funeral was five days later, closed-casket. It was a small ordeal, with just his band, his parents, and a few other close family members there. He watched as they lowered her tiny casket into the ground. He tossed the first handful of dirt into it, followed by Patrick. Moon Allanah Elizabeth Stumph-Wentz was buried in a cemetary not too far from Pete’s house, close enough that he could drive there and see the grave every day if he wanted to. 

     He fed Persimmon tiredly when he returned home. The next few days were hectic. Pete didn’t get any sleep, What with how Persimmon, Patrick and Joe alike had taken to calling her “Percy”, was crying, the band was getting a bit more publicity, Pete and Patrick had started considering getting an apartment together for their daughter, and life just generally got more confusing.

     Needless to say, the band gushed over Persimmon, or “Percy,” as Patrick and Joe called her, and treated her like a queen, despite the fact that she couldn’t even smile yet. 

     One night, in Pete’s house, Patrick and Pete were sitting with their backs against the wall and Persimmon in Pete’s arm, nursing quite violently from Pete’s breast. Normally, he wouldn’t do that, but he had been feeling full lately, so he let Percy nurse. “We’ll figure it out, Pete. We’ll be okay. It’ll be okay,” and for once, Pete actually let himself think it’d be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y’all enjoyed!


	11. Me and You, Setting in a Honeymoon (Epilogue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of this story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHHHHH! I can’t believe it’s done! I’m screaming! Chapter title taken from “I’m Like a Lawyer With the Way I’m Always Trying to Get You Off” by Fall Out Boy.

     Percy lived a relatively normal life, for a premature daughter of two fathers who also happened to be in a band together. She had them wrapped around her finger from the first time they laid eyes on her.

     Pete always thought she’d end up favoring him, but she was Patrick in every possible way, from her baby-fine, stick-straight ginger-blonde hair that she had all the way through puberty, when it started turning a little darker, to her short, stocky body, to her aptitude for music, but her eyes were Pete’s: wide, hooded, whisky-brown. Her smile was his, too, wide, white, too big for her face, and her laugh was like a donkey’s bray. She had Pete’s rather nasty sense of humor as well, as her first word was, “Fuck!” Needless to say, neither of them were happy about that.

     During the hiatus was always toughest on Percy. Being barely seven years old, her first time switching between houses was hectic. She cried and screamed and dug her heels in, saying, “I don’ want Daddy to go!” whenever Pete left her with Patrick, and, “Papa, please stay! Don’ go!” Whenever Patrick left her with Pete.

     By the time Percy was ten, though, Pete and Patrick were back with each other, and they were all incredibly happy, Percy especially because her parents were back with each other and she’d get even more attention. Pete could already tell she’d be a preener. He couldn’t blame her, with how fucking gorgeous she was growing up to be. She was the spitting image of Patrick, after all, and she had Pete’s personality.

     One day, when Percy was twelve, Patrick said he had something special planned for the two of them at home. They dropped Percy off at Pete’s parents’ house for the next two days (Pete had no idea why the needed two days away from their daughter. He hoped it involved lots of sex), but he said he also had something special for Patrick, too. Something so, so special. 

      “Okay, okay, what’s all this about?” Pete said as Patrick slid his hands over Pete’s eyes. “I told you I had something special for you...I love you, Pete,” he said, kissing Pete’s cheek as he lifted his hands. In front of him was their bedroom, light low, a single candle burning in the corner, and red sheets turned down on the bed. “Oh, my god, Patrick, you fucking cheeseball. I love you,” he turned around to kiss Patrick none-too-gently. “I knew you’d like it. You’re a sucker for the clichés,” Patrick said as he pulled and and tugged Pete’s hoodie over his head.

     He pushed Pete back onto the bed and kissed him silly, hands fiddling with Pete’s belt. “Stupid fucking...” he muttered, fumbling with the buckle. Pete laughed softly and undid it for him, exposing the plain white boxers he was wearing that day. “God, you’re fucking gorgeous,” Patrick said as he tugged Pete’s shirt off. He’d long since had top surgery, and his scars were almost gone, but he’d always have very sensitive nipples, as he’d nursed Percy occasionally, and Patrick loved taking advantage of that. He bit and licked and sucked, teasing Pete and making him sweat out, “Patrick, fucking hell, c’mon, take your shirt off,” and he pulled off Pete’s nipple and took off his sweater.

     He’d gained some weight back since the hiatus, but Pete thought it was adorable. He didn’t care if Patrick had some chub, he was his Pete’s Patrick. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he said, pulling Patrick up for a kiss.

     He didn’t know exactly when the clothes on their lower halves left the equation, but he didn’t exactly care, because when that happened, Patrick started sucking his clit. Patrick had always been good at giving oral, but after the hiatus, he’d gotten even better. It wasn’t as intense as it used to be, but as Pete had gotten older, he’d learned to appreciate the love in sex a bit more, so something a little gentler made him happier. 

     His moans were loud and unapologetic, and he honestly he didn’t care. If the neighbors were upset, well, that’s what living in the middle of nowhere was for.

    Pete didn’t care that Patrick had his wet all over his face when Patrick kissed him. It’d never bothered him before, so why start now? It didn’t bother him that Patrick didn’t wear a condom when he slid inside. It didn’t bother him that Patrick’s breath was hot and wet and a little uncomfortable on his ear. It definitely didn’t bother him when Patrick got close and started moaning his name and gently rubbing his clit. It didn’t bother him when Patrick finished in him and then got him off with not-so-gentle fingers at his clit. It made him happy when Patrick moved and kissed him, muttering gentle “I love you”s in his ear.

     They shuffled around so that Pete was cuddled to Patrick’s chest and the blanket was tangled round their feet. “Oh! Your surprise...” Patrick rose to his feet groggily, much to Pete’s dismay. He began digging through the lowest dresser drawer, the junk drawer, and then pulled something out and hid it behind him.

     “Pete. Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the motherfucking third,” 

     Wait.

     What the fuck?

     “Oh my god, I’m so fucking cheesy,” Patrick laughed dryly and ran a hand down his face as he got back onto the bed. “I uh....I love you, Pete. I love you so much, more than anything, other than like, Percy, but that’s different-you know what, lemme...let me just get to the point. I love you, Pete Wentz. I love you, so much...and, and it’s legal, now, so...and I understand if you say no, but...okay, uh...” his voice was shaking. Pete couldn’t remember the last time Patrick’s voice shook. “I’m gonna...I’m gonna do this,” and he pulled his other hand from behind his back. A small, velvet box took up residence there. Oh, fuck, this isn’t happening. Is it?

     “It’s legal now. Pete Wentz, will you...will you marry me?” He opened the box, and inside was a simple silver band, more beautiful than any expensive engagement ring Pete had ever seen. “I understand if you...if you don’t want to, but-mph!” Pete cut him off with a kiss, then pulled away, saying, “Put the damn ring on my hand, Lunchbox. Yes, I’ll fucking marry you!” He kissed Patrick roughly as he slid the ring onto Pete’s finger.

     “And what about your surprise, Pete?” Pete’s heart began racing. Oh, that. He supposed Patrick would have to know sooner or later. “One second,” he said, his voice trembling as he got up and left for the bathroom, both to psych himself up and get what he needed to show Patrick. He picked it up and steeled himself, hiding it behind his back. 

     He returned to the bedroom with his hand behind his back. “Tell me, Pete,” Patrick said, coming to stand in front of Pete. Pete inhaled sharply and said softly, “How does giving Percy a little sibling sound?” And he pulled the pregnancy test from behind his back. In the little window, there were the words “Pregnant: 6-8 weeks.” Patrick looked from Pete to the test and back to Pete again. “You’re...” he said, and Pete nodded. “I’m pregnant, Patrick. I took this a week ago, so I’m...I’m about two months along. We’re having another baby, Patrick. We’re having another baby,” Patrick repeated the words slowly, then whooped loudly and grabbed Pete round the waist and said, “He’s pregnant!” 

     They told their parents all the news, from Pete being pregnant to them getting married. They made announcements on social media. Their band went crazy, especially Joe, because he’d get to feel baby kicks again, because Ruby had already been born and Joe and Andy were doing amazingly with their little girl, and her birth mom, Marie, got to see her all the time. Percy went absolutely nuts, asked if she could be flower girl and plan the wedding and name the baby, and well, just general twelve-year-old stuff.

     Pete’s first ultrasound revealed both their hopes and their greatest fears: twins. Everything looked fine, their babies were okay, but because of Moon, he was still nervous.

     They agreed to hold a small wedding in Chicago. The day before the wedding (Pete was about six months in) Percy, Patrick, and Pete went to see Moon’s grave. Percy put a dozen roses and a necklace with a moon pendant on her grave, saying to her parents, “Sometimes...I think I hear her in my dreams. Moon, I mean. It’s like...like a part of me is gone, even though we weren’t identical. I wake up sometimes and I reach for her, only to find...only to find she’s not there,” Pete felt a single tear slide down his cheek. “I know exactly how you feel, Percy. I know just how you feel. It’s been almost thirteen years since she died, but...” Patrick wrapped an arm around Pete’s shoulders, finishing his sentence with, “Sometimes it feels like just yesterday we held her body in our arms,”

     They stood and cried over Moon’s grave for a while before returning to their room. Sleep eluded Pete, between the constant need to pee, the babies kicking, and thoughts of Moon. What would it be like if she were still here? Would she be normal? Would she have other needs? Pete let his mind wander before he fell into a fitful sleep.

     The wedding was small, but pleasant. No alcohol, what with Pete being pregnant, Andy being straightedge, and Joe being, well, Joe, so they just had sparkling juice. When they kissed, they didn’t exactly kiss so much as suck each other’s faces off, but they didn’t exactly care, until Joe screamed, “Get a room!”

     Three months later, they had two healthy identical boys, Doc James Stump-Wentz and Earnest Hollow Stump-Wentz. They couldn’t have been more different than Percy and Moon, both chunky, both with shocks of curly black hair under their hats, and both screaming as soon as they hit the world. Pete couldn’t be a happier father.

     A week later, when all the kids were asleep, and Pete and Patrick were tired, but happy, Patrick whispered into Pete’s ear, “I told you we’d be fine. I love you,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed this story!

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry it’s so short and shitty. I’m going to hell. See y’all there! Oh, and can one of the zero of you that will read this bring coffee? I’m out.


End file.
